


Presence

by filenotch



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 65,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voyager returns to the Alpha Quadrant during the Dominion War. Everyone keeps their field commissions but the EMH, who is stored in a computer bank, and Tom Paris, who has his commission blocked by his father. He nearly kills himself with drinking and drugs until he finds the Runners. The Runners are privateers who do what the Federation can't. When Tom Paris is paralyzed by a Jem'Hadar blade, he journeys to DS9 to meet with Seven of Nine for Borg implants to repair him. Of course, Chakotay's Defiant-class warship is fighting out of DS9, and it is inevitable they'll run into each other. But when Tom finds out he's been a data mule for the Federation's shadowy Section Thirty-one, he hatches a plot to find out why, and to rescue the EMH. </p><p>This was written about 1998-99.</p><p> "<i>The impetus that makes you fly is our great human possession. Everybody has it. It is the feeling of being linked with the roots of power, but one soon becomes afraid of this feeling. It's damned dangerous! That is why most people shed their wings and prefer to walk and obey the law. But not you. You go on flying. And look! You discover that you gradually begin to master your flight...</i>" Herman Hesse, Demain</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This owes a lot to stories written by BratKatze and Whitecrow, who set up this AU. It owes the most to Whitecrow, who was my alpha reader, beta reader and ass kicker. Originally published in the late 1990s.

Chakotay never felt comfortable on Deep Space Nine. It was the Cardassian architecture that bothered him, with its asymmetries and dark colors reflecting the predictable unpredictability of the species as a whole. His attitude in the Maquis had been that you never knew precisely what a Cardassian was going to do, but you could be sure you wouldn't like it. No, he did not care for DS9 at all.

Wolf Raider was docked at the station for small repairs and tactical updates. This hadn't been the closest Federation facility, but Chakotay suspected the station commander, Captain Sisko, had something to do with the assignment. 

Sisko's ship, the Defiant, and Chakotay's Wolf Raider had each destroyed nearly the same number of Dominion vessels. The station commander treated it like a friendly rivalry, and Chakotay played along somewhat, though his reasons for reticence had changed over the years. In the Delta Quadrant he had moved far away from the Maquis captain whose business it was to kill Cardassians. When he had first joined this new war he felt that killing, even killing Cardassians, should not be a sport. Now he faced only destruction or survival, and cared nothing for scores. 

Still, he let Sisko have his pleasure in the Defiant's kill record; they were three ships ahead of Wolf Raider. Chakotay put up with the ritual ribbing with good humor, but he was rewarded by unexpected news.

"I'm not sure either one of us can hold a candle to some of those Runners," the bass voice had said. "They're out-powered and out- gunned, but they get away with the most _amazing _stunts. One of them is docked here at the station. He made it back after destroying a Dominion prison camp, and killing a Changeling." Sisko leaned back against the briefing table and continued, "I think you know him from Voyager. The admiral's son, Tom Paris."__

__Chakotay's long habit of disciplining his face came to the fore. Sisko wouldn't see the shock he produced by that casual announcement, and Chakotay had turned the talk to more pressing matters to hasten his departure. Now, walking alone after the meeting, Chakotay's eyes swept over the promenade hoping to catch sight of Tom. This was ridiculous, he knew -- there were too many people, and Paris probably wasn't even here. He decided it would be better to leave a message at Tom's ship._ _

__As Chakotay turned to head toward the docking ring he caught sight of himself in a shop window several meters away. A break in the crowd revealed his reflection, full length, and he was a bit surprised. He didn't see himself like this very often. The image seemed leaner than he thought of himself, more grizzled around the ears, but he knew that already. Something in the image made him remark that he was turning from bear into wolf. Maybe he was taking after his ship, he thought wryly. Before he could turn away, he was stopped by another face in the reflection, the face of someone standing closer to the glass._ _

__Tom? No, the man was wearing the full earring of a Bajoran, but his sandy brown hair was longer and pulled into a short ponytail, a style unusual for that race. Chakotay had a view of both the front and back of the figure. Not Tom, no. Nothing fit together. This man was taller, wearing a long sleeveless vest of Klingon style, but cut of a softer fabric and color usually favored by humans. The decoration on the vest was distinctly Betazoid, but the boots were nothing he recognized. A man of many worlds, perhaps._ _

__Chakotay realized the man in the reflection was aware of the scrutiny, and when he looked at the face in the glass, the eyes of the stranger locked with his. Then the face smiled, lopsided and knowing, and it could only be Tom._ _

__Motionless with surprise, Chakotay watched as Paris turned and walked stiffly over. His relief in seeing him alive was subverted by his inability to reconcile this taller man with the Tom Paris he knew. Where was the grace? What were these halting steps? The sharper face lacked some of the beauty he thought of as particularly Tom's._ _

__"Hello." The greeting was tentative, but the voice familiar. "Glad to see me?"_ _

__Chakotay recovered himself. "Of course" he answered in a voice tight with confused emotions, "but I don't know what I'm seeing. What's happened, Tom? Everyone thought you were dead."_ _

__"They've thought that before. Take me someplace quiet I'll tell you all about it. I'd invite you to my ship, but it's a mess right now. Actually, it's not even mine. You still have Wolf Raider?"_ _

__"She's still flying."_ _

__They walked in silence to the closest turbolift, and Chakotay had to shorten his steps to accommodate Tom's slower pace. Inside the lift they pulled each other close. Chakotay's head rested comfortably on Tom's shoulder, but the position only accentuated the strange increased difference in their heights. They parted, still wordless, as the lift slowed, and stepped out into the corridor of the docking ring._ _

__Wolf Raider was only a few airlocks away, and Chakotay led them through the connection and onto his ship. As soon as they were aboard he went into 'Captain' mode, striding purposefully and forgetting that he had to slow his steps. He turned and waited for Tom to catch up, wondering what the problem was with his movements. They were not only slow, but somehow wrong. "Harry's going to want to see you," he said, breaking the silence to cover his embarrassment._ _

__"You could call him now. I might as well only tell the story once."_ _

__Chakotay pressed his comm badge, not sure if he was disappointed to be sharing Tom so soon, or relieved for the diluting company. "Chakotay to Commander Kim."_ _

__"Kim here." The voice followed them down the corridor._ _

__"Meet me in my quarters as soon as you can."_ _

__"Aye, sir." The voice held the question Harry didn't ask._ _

__"Tom's here."_ _

__"On my way. Kim out."_ _

__"He sounds happy," Tom observed._ _

__"Happy to see you." Chakotay smiled and hit Tom gently across the chest with the back of his hand._ _

__"How's he been?"_ _

__"Still a great XO. I'm afraid he'll be promoted out from under me, and I'd hate to lose him." Chakotay paused, then added, "Besides, there's something about having another ex-Voyager around." Tom said nothing, merely nodding slightly. "But I know what you're asking," Chakotay finished, "and no, he never got over what happened with B'Elanna. Harry Kim now has casual affairs."_ _

__"Things do change."_ _

__Something in Tom's tone made Chakotay look at him, but the sharp face was neutral. He didn't push it; they'd seen enough changes of their own, but this constraint between them was sadly familiar. They walked in silence until they rounded the last corner to the captain's quarters, and found Harry already waiting in the corridor._ _

__The stance of contained excitement with arms hugging across his chest reminded him of Harry in the early days. Chakotay watched both the sadness and the war drop from him, and, despite the threads of silver at his temples, he seemed the enthusiastic young ensign again. He rushed forward to greet them._ _

__"Tom! You're... taller." Harry stopped, nearly stuttering. His arms, rising for an embrace, shifted to a gesture of presentation. "And you've got a new tailor."_ _

__Tom let Harry's discomfort go unnoticed. "Uh huh. A Cardassian tailor, in fact." Tom's face wore his signature grin, as he stepped past Harry and turned his friend with an arm draped across the shoulder. "You manage to stay out of trouble with that Ferengi bartender?"_ _

__Harry snorted, and they followed Chakotay into his quarters where he was already walking toward the replicator, ready to play host. "Can I get you anything?"_ _

__"You still make herbal teas? I'd like that."_ _

__"Tom, are you all right?" Harry's face took on a mock-incredulous expression. Tom only shrugged, and Harry turned back to Chakotay. "I'm technically on duty, so a raktajino for me."_ _

__It was Tom's turn to give Harry grief. "Klingon drinks?"_ _

__"B'Elanna's mother got me on to it. So no scotch for you? How come?"_ _

__"I, uh, can't risk it."_ _

__"This I have to hear."_ _

__"Hey, gotta keep sharp out on the front, you know," Tom deflected._ _

__Chakotay let them banter as he took their drinks from the replicator. He was as curious as Harry, but he was content to wait. The younger men traded insults behind him, and he found himself wanting to stretch the moment. He could almost pretend he was back in the Delta Quadrant, getting ready for a quiet evening with his lover and their friends. The only thing missing was B'Elanna. That thought drew Chakotay back to the present with surprising force._ _

__Tom was alive. Tom was here. Everything else he could figure out later._ _

__He took the mugs over to his guests and returned to make his own selection: Coffee. Admiral Janeway was inordinately amused that he'd succumbed to her favorite vice. She probably wouldn't be so pleased at the nights he now spent emptying glasses of bourbon with Harry. He took his cup over to the couch under the view port, and Tom and Harry followed. Harry took a chair, his eyes narrowing as he watched Tom slowly sink onto the couch._ _

__The way he moved looked unnatural, and in the quiet Chakotay thought he could hear the low whine of servos._ _

__Once seated, Tom sat up somewhat formally, and grimaced. "Sorry." His head bent over his mug. "So what's new, guys?"_ _

__"Uh-uh, Tom." Harry shook his head. "When did you start dressing like a Klingon and wearing Bajoran jewelry? Or make noises like an outdated piece of machinery?"_ _

__"It's a long story," Tom said. His companions waited, but he didn't continue._ _

__"Tom, don't be obstreperous," Harry said, with a mock threat._ _

__"That's a big word, Harry." Paris matched his tone. "You use that on all the ensigns?"_ _

__"Quit stalling."_ _

__"All right." Tom's voice was low. "I took some primitive Jem'Hadar weapon in the back." He was speaking as much to his mug as to his friends, sitting very straight-backed but with his head bowed. "It was a few hours -- I don't know -- before I got rescued. Only half my crew got out, and we ended up on a Runner ship that had a Betazoid medic. Between him and my Klingon engineer, this brace -- " He rapped his knuckles against one knee, and it did not sound like flesh on flesh. He looked up at them, and the wry smile was grim. "This was the best they could do."_ _

__"It isn't permanent, is it?" Harry asked Chakotay's question._ _

__"No. The Betazoid was able to salvage some of the spinal connections, but the nerves regrow so slowly. They'll take years to reach my feet, but they say I'll get it back a bit at a time." Tom talked a bit louder, and seemed to recover some of his usual pose of nonchalance. "Anyway, the brace lets me walk and it stimulates the muscles so they won't deteriorate too much." He sipped his tea. "It was nice to have a telepath to teach me to use it."_ _

__"How long have you had it?" Harry asked_ _

__"A couple of weeks, but I'll be replacing it soon, I hope." Tom's mask was now completely recovered. "You might be interested to hear that the former Lieutenant Nine will be on the station tomorrow._ _

__"Former?" Harry's voice was puzzled. "I thought she was still working with B'Elanna."_ _

__"She is, as a civilian." Tom seemed to enjoy the effect of this news. "She resigned her commission and made a deal with Starfleet that she would still help with ship technology if they kept their hands off her personal technology."_ _

__"Why? What did they want from her?"_ _

__Tom smiled, and Chakotay read pleasure at a successful deflection. "You're still full of questions, Harry."_ _

__"You're still full of -- " Harry broke off, shaking his head. "Too much, Tom. What's Seven coming here for?"_ _

__"A new device for me. I'll add Borg to my style palette." Before Harry could ask another question, Tom turned to Chakotay and asked, "Can I stay here for a while?" A nod was his response. "I'd really like to get out of this thing. I can't feel much of anything from the hips down, but my back is killing me."_ _

__Tom stood up slowly as he spoke, shed the long Klingon vest, and pulled at the drawstring of his loose trousers. The pants dropped to his ankles revealing an ugly black and silver contraption. He stepped mechanically out of the pants, then pushed a sequence of buttons on the lighted panel at his lower abdomen._ _

__"You need help?" It was Harry who asked._ _

__"In a second." Tom sat down again, then leaned away from Chakotay. He unsnapped two clamps at his hips, and the thing hinged forward at the knees. "Can you slide it off me?"_ _

__Harry rose to take one leg, and Chakotay bent forward to the other. It wasn't a smooth operation, but with Tom's guidance they pulled away the brace. The thing could stand on its feet, and had a weird metallic beauty all its own when apart from its owner. The silver metal had lain over the thick, black compression pants which still covered Tom's lower body, and the boots Chakotay had noticed on the Promenade were simply part of the brace. Chakotay wondered how Tom controlled the thing, and his mind shied away from thoughts of flesh and metal sockets._ _

__Tom reached down to pull his legs up onto the couch before lounging sideways. They looked normal to Chakotay, but Tom handled them like something separate from his body. "Here, watch this." Furrows of concentration crossed his face, and the thing walked itself, each step really a controlled fall, over to the corner of the room._ _

__"Wow," said Harry, walking over to look at it. "How does it work?"_ _

__"Combination of servos and stimulating my own muscles, with a minimal neural interface. The power supply is in the soles of the feet." He indicated the black leggings. "This connects to the brace controls and the simulators embedded in my muscles, and they communicate by short-range radio. It's crude, but effective."_ _

__Harry was examining the structure. "Radio frequencies?" he asked incredulously. "It looks like they made it out of wall bracing, EPS backups, and a tricorder control panel."_ _

__Tom smirked. "They did."_ _

__Chakotay was the observer through all of this. Once again, Tom was back, and once again, Tom was different. Paris' legs were twisted unnaturally, and without thinking his hands moved to straighten them. Tom looked up and Chakotay started to pull back._ _

__"It's okay." Tom pitched his voice low, barely whispering to keep the moment private. "Thanks."_ _

__Chakotay glanced up to the brace and back to the pants they connected with. A host of practical questions rose in his mind, with answers he didn't want to follow._ _

__Harry stepped back to reclaim his mug, and sat down, saying, "Well, I can see how Borg technology would be appealing after a few weeks of that. So," he took a breath and spoke slowly, as if to a backwards cadet. "How did you get from your father's funeral to the business end of a Jem'Hadar weapon?"_ _

__"I took a ship, Har'." Tom bowed his head to unbind his hair, but Chakotay could see a small smile. Tom was enjoying this, and Chakotay knew that falling back on old patterns was Tom's way of putting both Harry and Tom himself at ease. All along, Tom had been asserting the upper hand, retaking the dominant position of their early friendship._ _

__"Tom!" Harry's frustration was evident._ _

__Paris ignored him and removed the earring. He set it on the discarded vest and shook out his hair, which fell curving to his shoulders. Chakotay stared at the profile. The long hair softened the now sharp features, but he wasn't sure he liked either one._ _

__Harry looked like he was about to ask another question, but he caught himself. Chakotay could see that he had finally caught on to Tom's evasions and decided to play the game. With elaborate casualness his exec sat back, stretched out his legs and sipped from his mug. "Nice to see you, Tom. How ya' been?"_ _

__"Busy. How are you, Harry?"_ _

__"Fine. The usual. It's a war, you know."_ _

__"Seeing anybody?"_ _

__"No one special."_ _

__They sat in silence for a moment, and Harry seemed content to wait it out. In the long moment, Chakotay watched Tom's face. The expressions crossing the features told him what words wouldn't say: Tom was tired, and he couldn't keep up the mask._ _

__Finally Paris gave up and spoke. "You asked about the earring. It belonged to my Bajoran tactical officer, Terat Bellor, who died rescuing me. Ba'ruq, he's my engineer, remembered to take it so that we could return it to his family if we ever made it back. The family -- " Tom paused. "I met them this morning. They treated me like some kind of hero. They wanted me to keep it, and I told them I could only do that if they permitted me to wear it. I thought his mother was going to cry." There was an odd bitterness as Tom said, "Evidently that was the right answer._ _

__"Anyway, I felt so strange when I left them. I mean, I came to tell them that their son was dead, and they _thanked_ me." Paris looked sideways and swallowed. "I was walking around the station afterward and stumbled on that Cardassian tailor's shop. I just wandered in and ordered the vest, because Ba'ruq's Klingon. The tailor didn't say anything, but I guess he knew who I was. He made it for me right away, and wouldn't take payment, but I don't see why a Cardassian would like what I do. Anyway, the ornament is Betazoid, for the medic. I found it in another shop."_ _

__He turned toward the Fleet officers again. There was a bitter edge to his voice "You wear those uniforms and you know who you are. You know what you should be doing, because somebody gives you orders. You don't know what a luxury that is."_ _

__Paris fell silent again, and the sentiment seemed so unlike Tom. Chakotay reached out, rubbing the feet and legs cased in the black tights in a gesture intended for comfort. Tom looked at him, smiled wryly and said, "Y'know, I can't get used to seeing people touch me and not being able to feel it."_ _

__Chakotay's face was immobile. No one else could have noticed; only people who knew him well, such as the two in his quarters, would know that Tom's remark had hit hard. The reality of the injury started to sink in, and his mind could no longer slide off the subject._ _

__Tom turned back to Harry, letting Chakotay recover himself. "I had a lot of time to think after I got hurt. After my father's funeral I lost sight of everything. Until someone died rescuing me." Tom studied the inside of the mug gripped tightly by his fingers. "Now they think I'm some sort of hero." Tom spat the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth._ _

__"There were at least three times when I could have saved people, and didn't. I knew there wouldn't be a Changeling there and couldn't be bothered. All I wanted was one dead Founder." Tom gestured upward with a bitter laugh. "I didn't even care if it was the same one that killed my dad. I mean, how do you tell shape shifters apart? And when I finally do find one and kill it, someone dies because he tries to help me._ _

__"I shouldn't be alive. I _told_ them to leave me, that once I killed a Changeling I was done. Finished. Ready to die."_ _

__There was a small silence at the end of Tom's monologue. Finally Chakotay said, "But your crew came after you." He could hear that his voice was toneless, but he had no idea how to react. He'd seen Tom bitter, but this was worse._ _

__"I can't imagine why they rescued me. It cost a lot -- it cost the ship!-- and I owe them." Tom sighed. "I have a lot of lost time to make up for, and a reputation I have to deserve." He looked down into his mug._ _

__Harry didn't let the quiet last. "You're hoping Seven can Borg you back into shape." Tom nodded, not looking up._ _

__Before anything else could be said, the comm system interrupted._ _

__A lilting accent said, "Banta to Commander Kim."_ _

__"Oh shit. I forgot." Harry slapped his comm badge. "Kim here. Apologies, Lieutenant. I'm on my way. Kim out." He rose and crossed to Tom, extending a hand._ _

__"See you soon?"_ _

__"I'll be around." Tom took the offered hand, and Harry gave him a hard squeeze before turning to leave. At the door he paused and said over his shoulder, "I've still got questions, Paris." He didn't wait for an answer, and the door shut behind him._ _

__"Harry says, 'Oh shit'?"_ _

__Chakotay gave Tom a half smile. "Like you said, things do change."_ _

__Tom barked a short laugh. Chakotay picked up the conversation again. "So the vest, the earring? You take the coverings of others and lose yourself in them?"_ _

__"That's maybe the idea."_ _

__"Maybe?"_ _

__"Chakotay, I just got all this stuff! I don't know what I'm doing."_ _

__The answer was dry, tinged with humor. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were getting spiritual in your old age."_ _

__"Well, as they say, things do change." Tom regarded his empty mug, then looked up with teasing eyes. "Right now what I need to change is my underwear."_ _

__Chakotay almost spat his coffee in surprise at the shift in mood._ _

__"C'mon, you're a captain. I bet you've got a real bathtub," Tom cajoled. "These leg things make my balls sweat. I may not be able to feel it, but I can smell it."_ _

__The bath itself was fine. Chakotay stripped and helped wash, eventually joining Tom in the water. Tom was clearly in heaven, scrubbing until the skin was pink and ordering Chakotay to wash between every toe. It was getting Tom in and out that Chakotay hadn't been prepared for, wasn't trained for. Water threatened to get everywhere, and Chakotay eventually just put a towel on the floor and helped Tom down onto it. Tom dried his head and torso while Chakotay took care of his legs._ _

__Chakotay hesitated when he reached the tops of the thighs, then ran the towel back down each leg, leaving the rest to Tom. If Tom noticed his reticence, he said nothing. He finished drying himself, and toweled his head one last time._ _

__At last Tom said, "We done here?"_ _

__"I think so. What now?"_ _

__"Now you take me to bed, and we make love."_ _

__Chakotay was stunned at the suggestion, but he looked carefully at Tom. His hair fell in a few tousled ringlets, and his skin glowed from the harsh scrubber he had insisted on using, even on his face. He ran his fingers over Tom's lips, over the face whose expression he could not read. "How do we do that?" The question was sincere._ _

__"Just get me into bed first. I think that'll be the hardest part."_ _

__Chakotay had to laugh. "No kidding. You're like handling a sack of corn."_ _

__"Well just throw me over your shoulder."_ _

__It was a struggle, but they managed. Chakotay dumped his load unceremoniously on the bed, then sat down. "This seems like it might be a bit one-sided."_ _

__"More nerve endings in the mouth than on the dick. I'll be fine."_ _

__"You and your medical training." Chakotay's tone was more dismissive than he intended, but the near-clinical detachment in Tom's voice shook him._ _

__Tom imitated Chakotay's words and tone. "Well, you and your counseling training ought to know that right now I need to know you still want me."_ _

__"Of course I do." Chakotay ran his hand across Tom's chest, tracing the line of one pectoral, remembering how he enjoyed the feel of the soft, reddish chest hair. "I just never know what I'm going to get when you come back."_ _

__"But I come back," Tom said, with unusual sincerity._ _

__"Lucky me." Chakotay gave a soft snort of laughter, but there was no sarcasm in his voice. "Every time I think you're dead, you come back. Every time you come back, something is different. Remember the first time when we found you in that wrecked ship? You were doing drugs, doing everything you could to push me away." He placed his hand flat on the chest he'd been idly caressing. "Now I wonder who this introspective hero is."_ _

__"Damned if I know." Tom sighed. "You want introspection?" he asked impatiently. "Try this. All my life I've never felt good enough. That Betazoid medic told me I was like a badly set fracture, and I needed to be re-broken to be made right." The impatience slipped out of Tom's voice, leaving him sounding tired. "It was like he'd always known me, but I guess telepaths are like that. He said I kept trying to break myself -- drugs, risks -- but a Jem'Hadar did it for me." Tom flicked an eyebrow, but he didn't smile. "He suggested I use this time to decide how to heal. He sounded just like some stupid Starfleet counselor, but, I don't know. There was something about what he said."_ _

__Chakotay looked down at Tom, hiding his uncertainty about what they were about to do behind his own counselor's voice. "Maybe there is something to that."_ _

__Tom snorted once, picked up the brown hand on his chest, and used it to pull Chakotay down to him. "Enough of the introspective hero bit. Just kiss me."_ _

__Chakotay leaned down to obey, willing, but unsure._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Tom stared at the ceiling of the cabin while Chakotay drowsed heavily beside him, thinking that the last hour had been a complete disaster. It was the stupidest thing he could have done, but he had fallen back on old habits. It was more than just stupid to think with a dick he couldn't even feel. The surprise of spotting the familiar face on the promenade short-circuited his brain, and the only smart thing he'd done was to ask for Harry to join them.

But Harry could only delay the inevitable. Once Tom was alone with Chakotay, he fell back on the one thing that'd he always been able to hide behind: sex.

But it wasn't something they could share -- never had been when it was only another form of manipulation. Chakotay had tried to bridge the gap, but it was too much to ask that he cross it by himself. It should have been a time for talking, but they weren't in the habit, and their recent patterns of frantic lovemaking no longer applied.

Tom had finally forced the issue, using everything he knew about the man's body to bring him to arousal, to orgasm. The taste was bitter in too many ways. 

The comm system startled Chakotay awake. "Bridge to Captain." 

He rolled slightly away from Tom and sat up. "What is it, Lieutenant?" 

"Captain, we are receiving a hail from the runner ship Logan asking for Mr. Paris," the deep, even tones of a Vulcan said. "They are insistent, sir." 

Chakotay glanced over to Tom, who nodded. "Patch it through to my quarters." 

"Aye, sir. They are transmitting voice only." 

A half second later: "Paris!" The growl was unmistakably Klingon. 

"Ba'ruq," Tom said, from his repose in Chakotay's bed. "What's your trouble?" 

"Finding you!" 

"Duly found," Tom acknowledged. "How go repairs?" 

"Well enough," the gruff voice answered, "but we have another problem." 

"Which is?" 

"Female." The voice was acerbic. 

"Take the usual tack: Polite, but firm." 

"I found resistance to be futile." 

"Seven." Tom and Chakotay spoke together. 

In sardonic agreement, Ba'ruq said, "She was most persuasive that I find you." 

"I'll bet," Tom chuckled. "Tell her I'm on Wolf Raider with Chakotay." Tom looked at the captain questioningly, who nodded his assent to the unspoken question. Tom continued, "Have her meet us here." 

"Understood. Logan out." 

"She's earlier than I expected," Tom said lightly. "Borg efficiency."

Chakotay moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "We'd better get dressed." 

"Come back here," Tom said, careful to sound like a request rather than a demand.

Chakotay lay back on his side, head propped in his hand. Tom's fingers traced the face before him, while his eyes searched for every nuance. He was trying to see something that was missing.

"Chakotay," he breathed, and contained in the syllables was a wealth of feeling. Their eyes met, but despite the intensity in Tom's voice, each man was holding something back, each was disappointed. They looked at each other a few minutes more, and Tom broke the reverie with his lopsided grin. He hoped it didn't seem as forced as it was.

"You've got gray hair." 

"And you've got more forehead." Tom scrubbed his hand across his thinning scalp. "Had to grow it out to make up for what I've lost." He pushed himself to sit up. "Help me into that contraption?" 

"Can't be worse than getting you out of the bath." Chakotay's voice walked the line between friendly teasing and annoyed complaint. He left to retrieve the leggings from the sonic shower, where they had undergone their routine cleaning. As Tom watched Chakotay turn them right side out, he wondered whether the thick fingers were ignoring the feel of circuitry, the catch of openings for quite practical purposes.

Chakotay handed over the black pants without discernible expression, and left to get the metal brace. He struggled to carry the contraption, which was heavier than it looked, and an awkward shape. Once it was set down, Tom met Chakotay's gaze calmly. "You promised me clean underwear." 

"You didn't have any on to begin with," Chakotay pointed out. 

That was half the problem."

Chakotay pulled two pairs of Starfleet-issue shorts out of his wardrobe, and tossed one pair at Tom.

"Yours are too big," Tom complained. 

"Adapt." Chakotay shrugged slightly. "This is a warship, and that's only a food replicator. You could have bought some on the promenade." 

"Heroes can't be seen buying underwear!" Chakotay snorted a laugh in response, and Tom continued, "Hey, you gonna help me with this?" 

"At least let me get my pants on." Tom waited, watching the man dress. They hadn't had so domestic a moment since their return to the Alpha Quadrant, but like everything, this was different.

He was still cataloging the list of differences when Chakotay turned to him and asked, "How do we do this?" It was the same question Chakotay had asked after his bath -- the meaning then being, _How do we make love?_ \-- and it broke Tom's facade of normalcy. 

"Did you like that?" he asked. Another echo. Tom had asked that question years ago, and in that same challenging voice. Once again he knew the answer. "It took you a while to get into it." 

Chakotay looked away. "It felt like I was being serviced." 

"You could have touched me." 

"I did," Chakotay's protest sounded weak. 

"I 'serviced' you because it seemed the only way to get your attention. You acted like I would break. Just because I can't get off, it doesn't mean I can't... that I don't want..." Tom looked away and gathered himself. It wasn't really Chakotay he was angry with. "Never mind. I understand." 

"Tom," Chakotay began, and broke off. 

"Forget it." Tom reached for the leggings, refusing to look up at Chakotay, to acknowledge his own fault in this. "Get out. I can do this." Chakotay didn't move. "Get out." Tom repeated. "I've done this before, I don't need your help, and I know you don't want to see this." The truth of the last seemed to unfreeze Chakotay, and he grabbed the rest of his uniform before leaving to the outer room.

Alone in the bedroom, Tom made his practiced way into the leggings.

He was angry, more at himself than at Chakotay, but what had he expected? In the past one kiss had ignited them both, but this time, until he maneuvered himself to take Chakotay in his mouth, the man's body had given no evidence of desire. He was glad of Seven's early arrival, and guessed that Chakotay was as well. His only thought: Get up, get Borged, and get the hell off this station. 

By the time Tom fastened the last clamp, Seven's voice was audible in the next room. He cursed inwardly that the shirt, vest, and trousers were out by the couch. Two breaths. He could do this. He could even make it look good.

* 

Chakotay's head turned at the movement from his bedroom. He watched in appalled fascination as Tom took a slow walk in the brace over to where he stood with Seven. Something had shifted in Tom, and he was back to the long-familiar guise of cockiness covering defensiveness. Chakotay felt as if it was the first time he'd seen the man today, like nothing had happened before this moment. This was Tom, and Chakotay wanted to reach for him, but Tom's attention was all on Seven of Nine. She stood dressed in a jacket and pants of brilliant blue with her appraising eyes turned toward Tom. 

"Tom Paris," she said, by way of greeting. "Your appliance is as inefficient as Ba'ruq described." 

Chakotay looked over at her, and found that her face mirrored the humor he heard in her voice. Her familiar choice of words now had a tone of bantering. 

"Did you wave your assimilation tubules in Ba'ruq's face?" Tom asked. 

"It was not necessary." Shaking her head, she regarded his legs. "It is even uglier in person." 

"So you've seen the specs." 

"Ba'ruq showed them to me, and we discussed the manufacture. I never threatened him, Tom. Everyone has to make the 'resistance is futile' joke at least once." 

Tom smiled in response, and Chakotay realized that Seven had said the last with dead-pan humor. "I know," Tom was saying. "Thanks for coming all the way out here. It's been a long time." 

"I have several hundred days of leave accrued. This is my first vacation." 

"And you're spending it with me. I'm touched. So what did you think?" Tom indicated the brace. "Can you do better?" 

"Undoubtedly. Unfortunately we will have to have the muscle implants removed in a standard medical facility." 

Chakotay opened his mouth to offer his sick bay, but Tom was already speaking. "There's a Bajoran first officer on the station I've been wanting to meet. She's given me all kinds of help in the past, and I bet she can get us into the station's facility. Let me get dressed, and we can go look for her." 

Tom turned away to the couch. Chakotay fought the impulse to help him, and instead turned to Seven, picking up their interrupted conversation. "Your new flyer must be quite a ship. It sounds like you got here in record time." 

"It is more efficient than typical Starfleet designs." 

"So what happened between you and Starfleet?" Chakotay knew he was grasping at conversation. He felt ill at ease; he even had his hands behind his back. 

"They became interested in the nanoprobe warheads we developed on Voyager against Species 8472. They would make a decisive weapon against the Dominion." 

"They would think that. They might be right." 

"Yes, but only the Doctor knows how to replicate them. That information is in his holomatrix and was never in Voyager's data banks." 

"Yes, to protect it from being discovered. Why haven't they just asked the Doctor?" Chakotay asked. 

"He is considered a computer virus and rarely activated. At my request he locked all files pertaining to me or to Borg bioengineering." C

hakotay knew the Doctor's status was on hold, but he wondered why she had asked the EMH to security code her files. "Could you produce the nanoprobes they want? But that would mean..." 

"That either they would have to use me as a living factory or let me... assimilate a few 'volunteers'." The corners of Seven's mouth turned up, and Chakotay noted that there was a hint of sarcasm in the expression. She continued, "They were about to order me to produce nanoprobes for them regularly, enough to be used in certain strategic theaters. I offered to assimilate the admiral, and let him serve. He was unwilling. I resigned." 

"But you're still working there." 

"B'Elanna was insistent, both with me and with Command." 

"I can imagine. Are you and B'Elanna getting along well?" 

"She still calls me 'your Borgness' when we disagree." Seven's eyes were as wry as any Paris grin. "I have discovered that our disagreements can be ultimately quite productive, even when she slaps consoles and calls me names." 

Chakotay's smile grew more genuine, imagining the scene. "And how is 'your Borgness'?" Her lips curled upwards again. 

"I am undamaged." 

"Unlike me." Tom rejoined them, the earring flashing as he smoothed his hair back into the ponytail. "Well, I'm sure you're busy, Captain.

Thanks for the hospitality." "Anytime, Tom." The formality hurt, and Chakotay hoped his eyes spoke the apologies that were not leaving his tongue, but Tom didn't look at him. "Shall we?" Tom gestured toward the door.

Seven extended a hand to Chakotay. "It was good to see you again, Captain." The shake was formal. "Likewise. I'm glad to see you're doing well." "You also." She nodded, and turned to Tom, who was already at the open door.

"See you around, Chakotay," Tom said, betraying no emotion. And then they were gone. Chakotay walked over to the viewports feeling as if he had just come away from a particularly rough Vision. Tom -- Tom's injury, he corrected -- had shown him a change in himself that he didn't care to see. He had tried to give Tom what he wanted, but couldn't, and hadn't been smart enough to say no from the outset. He had only seen the broken body, not seen the will that still inhabited it. Tom talked of breaking himself, but Chakotay felt that everything that had happened to the man chipped away something extraneous, that he didn't so much need to be healed as to be uncovered.

Even the guarded man who had just left was only superficially like the defensive person he once had been.

Their meetings over the years since returning to the Alpha Quadrant had been brief and explosive, but he had seen Tom change. From the drug-using, lone Runner, he had become a leader with a ship and crew and a galactic reputation for daring. Chakotay knew reputations had a way of outgrowing their source, but Tom had found his center around what had once been undisciplined impulses.

Tom believed in something again, as he had once come to believe in Voyager. It was good to see it. Old harsh words came back to Chakotay, retracted, but nonetheless true. In some ways he had always felt superior to Tom -- morally, spiritually, as if he were somehow larger. The smallness of his reactions this afternoon sickened him. He had become something he didn't recognize, didn't want to acknowledge, and it made his skin itch.


	3. Chapter 3

They were two striking figures, or at least Paris thought so from the looks he and Seven were getting. Paris with his vest and earring and very human features, and Seven of Nine with her implants and statuesque bearing garnered a few double takes.

Despite their frequent technical communications over the last year, Tom had never been in her presence outside the context of Voyager. He shouldn't have been surprised that even in a station that had seen everything, the Borg was noticed.

They walked the promenade slowly, talking in inconsequential tones. It was late in the afternoon, station time, and Colonel Kira had not been available. Tom had an appointment the next morning. Now he had to kill time and not think about Chakotay.

While Seven was no gossip, he'd managed to get the current news on B'Elanna, Janeway, and Tuvok. He'd been surprised to learn that the Voyager's EMH was considered a computer virus, something that seemed to annoy Seven. It bothered Tom, too.

"His status as a sentient being has never been legally explored, and Admiral Janeway has been prevented from pursuing it. "It has been typical of their behavior," Seven said. "For the first few years Starfleet treated me as the sole example of a unique species. The longer I remained in Starfleet the more they began to see me less as a person and more as a machine."

"I heard you tell Chakotay why you resigned. That must have been the final straw.

"It was not a simple decision, and I am unaccustomed to living with no collective identity."

"You could join the Runners," Tom suggested, expecting a flat refusal.

She surprised him. "I wished to discuss that possibility with you." Then in an apparent non-sequitur: "What did you mean on the comm link from Wolf Raider when you told Ba'ruq to 'Take the usual tack'?"

Tom took on a tone between brag and deprecation. "Beautiful women want me. It's a problem sometimes."

"I can understand." Her voice was dry, adn only when Tom looked at her did he realize she was intentionally joking.

"I'll bet you do." Tom smiled and pulled on the sleeve of her jacket. "So what did you do, ask for a Starfleet uniform in solid color?"

"Essentially, yes. The design is acceptable, and is rarely inappropriate."

"And less revealing than those outfits the Doctor designed. I always wondered why you wore the jump-suits for so long." Tom raised his eyebrows briefly. "It was a bit distracting to your average male."

Seven shrugged slightly. "I missed my Borg armor. The jump-suits provided the nearest sensation."

"And the Starfleet uniform?" Tom asked seriously.

"Did that feel like armor, too?"

"In its own way."

"I was talking with Harry and Chakotay about this, and I wondered if you..." His thought was interrupted.

"Paris!"

The name rang out from a deep voice to their right. They turned to see a figure in a Command uniform striding toward them. The man stopped and folded his arms, and Tom found himself looking at a dark face wearing a speculative expression under a shiny, shaved skull.

"Paris, Thomas Eugene." The man's bass rumble stretched out the name as if his pronouncement made Tom somehow more real. "You can't seem to stay out of the newsfeeds, can you? If you aren't getting drummed publicly out of Starfleet, or caught with the Maquis, you're getting praise for tweaking the nose of the Dominion."

Paris raised his eyebrows slightly at this recitation, and the two men stood looking at each other for a few seconds. The broad, solid man finally spoke, lips twitching under a goatee. "I can't decide if you should be real or fiction, but I _think _I'm glad to meet you. I'm Benjamin Sisko, station commander." The threatening grin broke, and he took Tom by the arm. "You're just in time for a Deep Space Nine tradition."__

__Tom resisted the pull and retreated to formality. "Captain Sisko, may I present Seven of Nine."_ _

__Everyone in Starfleet knew that name, and Tom wondered how this man would react. Sisko's response was to broaden his grin. "Tertiary adjunct to unimatrix zero-one herself!" He sounded delighted. "I've heard great things about the Torres-Hansen warp modifications. Will you join us?"_ _

__She nodded her assent, and they walked in the direction he indicated. Tom leaned into Seven. "Torres-Hansen?"_ _

__"B'Elanna insisted I use my birth name. She thought 'Torres-Nine' would sound as if she had already tried eight that failed."_ _

__He grinned at her. "I can imagine." Apparently B'Elanna's stubborn pride was intact._ _

__They followed Sisko, the crowd thick enough that Tom's slow pace wasn't a problem. Their destination wasn't far, and Tom recognized the bar where he'd first met Harry Kim._ _

__Sisko ushered them toward a mixed group of uniforms and civilians. The Cardassian tailor was among them, as were several 'Fleet officers and Bajoran military personnel Tom spotted a red-headed Bajoran with colonel's insignia, who must be the station's first officer, Kira. Perhaps he wouldn'thave to wait till morning to say thank you and to ask about the medical bay._ _

__Sisko commandeered the Ferengi behind the bar and brought back drinks for them, then turned to crowd._ _

__"We have a new twist on our afternoon tradition today," he announced. "We have with us, Tom Paris of the runners. Chief O'Brien, will you do the honors?"_ _

__A round-faced officer raised a mug and smiled at Tom. Hands clutching drinks went up all round. "To Tom Paris," he said in an unexpected brogue, "for giving the Dominion a good run for it."_ _

__"Hear, hear!"_ _

__That felt uncomfortably weird. Tom raised his own glass and added seriously, "And to all of those who didn't make it back from the run."_ _

__"Hear, hear." The tone was more subdued this time. Sisko didn't let the threatening gloom descend._ _

__"Our station is also complimented by the presence of one half of the Torres-Hansen engine development team: Seven of Nine. Tom, Seven, this is just about everyone." Sisko searched the gathering._ _

__"Worf's out with General Martok, and the Constable seems to be missing."_ _

__There were enough people there that Tom didn't worry about who was missing. He glanced over the faces, pausing at the Bajoran colonel. She caught his eye and nodded with a slight smile. He looked over at Seven, and saw that a Ferengi in a Starfleet uniform was already trying to engage her. Tom mentally wished him luck._ _

__After a moment Paris excused himself from Sisko and made his way to the dark-haired Bajoran. "You must be Kira." They shook hands. "I owe you a lot."_ _

__"Thank a certain anonymous Starfleet admiral." Her smile was gracious, and she gestured towards his ear. "You pay someone a great honor, I've heard."_ _

__"The honor is mine." Tom tried to match her tone, but he couldn't keep a bitter sadness from his voice._ _

__Kira didn't pursue the subject. "How are the ship repairs coming along?"_ _

__"Pretty well, thanks to your people." Tom had the grace to look abashed before continuing. "I need another favor."_ _

__"We'll see what we can do. What is it?"_ _

__"I need access to medical facilities."_ _

__She didn't ask why, she simply gestured toward the bar._ _

__"I'll introduce you to Dr. Bashir." Kira led him over to where a slim, dark- haired man was talking to the one who'd raised the toast. Their faces were a study in constrast, the darker one all angles and planes, the lighter one round with indistinct features. Tom could hear their conversation as they approached._ _

__"She's magnificent, Miles," said the smooth voice of the thin man. He was waxing rhapsodically in the general direction of Seven of Nine "Those implants are so... exotic!"_ _

__"Aye, but who knows what's under that skin."_ _

__There was distaste in the answering brogue._ _

__"I do. I've looked at her medical records. It's really astounding." He punctuated his enthusiasm with a dramatic sigh. "Her image doesn't do her justice."_ _

__Kira coughed, and the men broke off. "Miles, Julian, this is Tom Paris. Mr. Paris, Dr. Julian Bashir. I'm sure he can help you."_ _

__Bashir shook Tom's hand, instantly professional. "Pleased to meet you. What seems to be the trouble?"_ _

__"I'll let him explain," Kira answered. "If you'll excuse me."_ _

__With Kira's departure the other man stuck out his hand, eyes crinkling under thinning pale curls. "Miles O'Brien, and very pleased to meet you." He gave Tom's arm two hearty pumps and then let g to pick up his mug._ _

__"I'll let you two talk shop, but I'd love to hear a few stories before the evening's out."_ _

__Tom shook his head. "I'll trade stories with you. You've got a reputation of your own."_ _

__O'Brien gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Don't believe anything _he_ tells you," indicating Bashir. "See you soon, then."_ _

__Tom turned back to Bashir, who was all business. "Can we talk here, or do you want to go to the infirmary?"_ _

__"Here is fine." Tom took O'Briens's abandoned barstool._ _

__"What can I do for you?"_ _

__Tom pulled up the leg of the trousers to show the bottom part of the_ _

__brace. He called upon his hours with Voyager's Doctor to let himself_ _

__speak concisely. "I took a bad spinal hit, lumbar-sacral enlargement I think, and it was too long before the local connections were repaired. This brace helps me walk, but..."_ _

__"Axonal degeneration."_ _

__"Yes, probably."_ _

__"I can make you a better prosthesis, but I can't guarantee I can do anything about the long nerves. Not with the equipment out here." Bashir spoke with some regret._ _

__Tom let the pants leg back down. "I've got a better prosthesis available," he answered, "but I need the implants from this one removed."_ _

__"Easily done, sir. What sort of replacement are you getting?"_ _

__"Borg."_ _

__That got Bashir's attention. "You're going to let her assimilate you?" he asked, nodding in Seven of Nine's direction, only half joking._ _

__"It's not like that." Tom shook his head. "She's developed ways to use Borg biomechanical technology on normal people."_ _

__"Why haven't I heard about this?" Bashir's eyes narrowed, and glistened, and he spoke in the same tones he had used to describe Seven of Nine's appearance. Bashir seemed as enthusastic about medicine as more obvious interests. "The possibilities are marvelous! Just think..."_ _

__Tom interrupted, "It's not that easy. The technology can't really be replicated." This wasn't precisely true, he knew, but he left it at that._ _

__"What do you mean?"_ _

__"They're like little living things. She produces them."_ _

__"Them?" Bashir's brows furrowed in question._ _

__"I'm sorry. Nanoprobes. They're sort of the Borg equivalent of white blood cells, but she can consciously program them."_ _

__Tom enjoyed the reaction this revelation produced. "That's amazing! None of this is in her medical files."_ _

__"Starfleet considers it a matter of top security."_ _

__"But you just told me." Bashir was confused._ _

__Tom looked at the doctor from beneath his brows, the corners of his eyes creasing in a smile that he barely let touch his mouth. "I'm not in Starfleet."_ _

__"Ah." Bashir's eyebrows jumped. "So you're not."_ _

__Tom sensed a certain understanding, and a desire to ask. The man scented intrigue, but Tom didn't let him follow that thought. "So, can you remove the implants for me?"_ _

__"On one condition." Bashir indicated Seven of Nine. "I get to watch the attachment of the new prosthesis?" His voice was friendly, eager._ _

__"As long as you don't try to get any samples. She's touchy about that."_ _

__The doctor's hands went up in a gesture of denial. "Wouldn't dream of it."_ _

__"Just like you wouldn't dream of reading a confidential medical record for a patient you aren't currently treating?"_ _

__"Touche." Bashir raised his glass in salute, and changed the subject._ _

__"Now, do please tell me where you got that twenty-first century contraption."_ _

__Tom told him, and over the course of the hour O'Brien returned, Sisko joined them, a small Trill came and went. People drifted in and out of conversations, stories were told, and jokes traded. Tom found he liked this group, but was disappointed that Kira never returned. Even so, it was a rare evening of fellowship for him with people who did not look to him as a leader._ _

__It nearly ended suddenly._ _

__The disruption came when all attention was focused on Tom, who was describing how he'd managed the run on Cardassia Prime herself._ _

__The tailor was just asking how Tom had gotten around a particular security system when the bar was disrupted by a drunken shout._ _

__"Traitor!"_ _

__The only sound that followed was the turning Dabo wheel. The silence was broken by the same call that had hushed the bar: "Traitor!"_ _

__The shout came from a Bajoran several meters away from the gathering at the bar. He was pointing at Tom Paris. "You betrayed the Maquis!"_ _

__Tom felt like laughing. This kind of accusation was more what he was used to than being toasted._ _

__The drunk began to circle where he stood, addressing the crowd. "The only reason he's not fighting for the Dominion is that they haven't met his price yet!" Someone took the man's arm, trying to pull him away, but he shook it off violently. He was screaming now. "How can you drink with this man when he betrayed the Maquis _twice_."_ _

__The man almost fell over, but he was pulled upright by a rich tenor voice from the balcony._ _

__"Only once, Kostin Bonyer." The voice was commanding. "Only once. And even once I can't hold against him."_ _

__All eyes looked up to the tattooed face leaning over the balcony rail._ _

__"Captain!" called the man, in evident surprise. Chakotay nodded, andmade his way to the spiral staircase. A low murmur spread through the bar as he walked over to the Bajoran._ _

__*_ _

__"Kostin Bonyer." Chakotay's couldn't believe it. "I thought you were dead." He took the drunk by his shoulders._ _

__"Might as well be to hear a Maquis defend *that*."_ _

__He waved an arm in Paris's general direction. "He let himself get caught so they could use him to chase you down." Kostin was nearly crying in frustration and anger._ _

__"No." Chakotay shook his head._ _

__"He let himself get caught so they wouldn't find us. We sent him to get help in that old ship, remember?" He spoke gently. The man was but a shadow of one of the best of the Maquis Chakotay had ever known._ _

__"And he ran it straight to Starfleet!" Kostin replied, refusing to be calmed._ _

__"No, it wasn't like that. We were damaged, had wounded, and he got an anonymous message through for help. Then he sacrificed himself and that piece of junk we gave him." He shook the protesting drunk. "Listen, he led them away from us.We were nearly crippled._ _

__He gave Starfleet another target, and if he hadn't done that, we'd have _all_ been captured." _ _

__"Not a traitor?" Disbelief._ _

__"Not a traitor. He saved our whole crew." Chakotay pulled the man in for an embrace. "Kostin Bonyer," he repeated almost tenderly, "I thought you were dead."_ _

__Bonyer's companion, the one who'd tried to pull him away, cleared his throat._ _

__"I'll take him home, sir."_ _

__Chakotay released his former crewman. "I'll look for you tomorrow, Bonyer." He stood nearly at salute, watching the two men leave the bar. He moved to follow them out, but a hand restrained him._ _

__"Adding to my legend?" Paris' voice was sarcastic._ _

__Chakotay was shaken by the exchange, and Tom's biting tone pushed him toward anger. "It's the truth, Tom, and you know it."_ _

__Tom nearly snorted his reply. "How do you know?"_ _

__"Kathryn."_ _

__Tom's eyes to the ceiling. "When did she tell you that whopper?" "On New Earth." Chakotay calmed himself with the memory. "When we were stranded there we used to tell each other stories. She told me about a young man who tried to redeem a mistake, and the price he paid. She told me how he paid more than required because he kept it secret."_ _

__Chakotay rested a hand on Tom's shoulder, butlightly, afraid he might be rebuffed. Tom only stood there, his mouth twitching with something suppressed. Chakotay finally asked him a question he had held inside for years. "Why didn't you tell anybody?"_ _

__"C'mon, Chakotay. Who'd've believed that one?" The earring swung as Tom shook his head._ _

__Chakotay took the chance of letting his hand caress Tom's shoulder. "Can we talk?"_ _

__Tom's guard dropped momentarily, then sarcasm reigned again. "It's all I'm good for, apparently."_ _

__Chakotay winced inwardly, but he didn't back down. "I deserved that."_ _

__Tom ignored the implied apology. "Maybe you just came for more of this," he said, flexing his lower lip showing the suggestive tip of a tongue._ _

__Chakotay knew he was being deliberately baited, and he became acutely aware of their public position as his hand tightened on Tom's shoulder._ _

__The routine of the bar had resumed with the exit of the former Maquis, but Chakotay couldn't help but feel they had an audience. "Tom, please."_ _

__"Please what?" There was a sneer in the voice._ _

__He dropped his hand from Tom's shoulder. "Please let me fix this."_ _

__Tom slapped one hip angrily. "You can't fix *this*."_ _

__Chakotay closed his eyes for a moment, and called up every reserve of spirit and of resolve. He had to do this, and this was not a game. He would not give in to Tom's manipulations. The glimpses Tom had given him back in his quarters showed what kind of man he had become, how much closer this was to the man he had loved on Voyager, but also how far he had come. Life as a Runner had changed him as the Maquis had once changed Chakotay, and he wanted to know the changes, wanted to be connected._ _

__Tom had every right to push him away, but he didn't want to let that happen. Chakotay had never abased himself in front of Tom before, and to do so in public was more difficult than he imagined. He'd come to the bar hoping to talk to Tom when he had the chance, to apologize, butwas not going to be allowed to choose his moment._ _

__His moment was now, and now that it was here, he acted on instinct. He raised his right hand to his chest and opened his eyes. Tom was simply staring at him, his regard that of an observer in a distasteful display._ _

__Chakotay swallowed, felt something move down his throat. He put his hand on his chest. In his mind his hand reached into his chest and pulled out his beating heart. He held his palm, empty to any other eyes, before him, offering it to Tom._ _

__Tom's expression changed to quizzical. He looked at the proffered hand as if trying to see something. Chakotay reached forward, reaching inside the Klingon vest to press his palm flat on Tom's shirt. His inner eyes saw his heart sink into Tom's chest, saw it beat in concert with the heart already within._ _

__Tom's face opened, his eyes widening. "What?" A breath, a question, a prayer -- Chakotay couldn't tell._ _

__Tom's blue eyes seemed to search his face as they had that afternoon. Chakotay wondered if Tom would find what he was looking for, would see the fear he felt. Chakotay watched the eyes narrow again, and Tom spoke with a wary edge._ _

__"I don't know what that was all about, but if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my hosts." He started to turn, but stopped. Without facing Chakotay he said, "You're welcome to join us."_ _

__It was a small acceptance, but Chakotay took it. The group at the bar was waiting with affected casualness._ _

__"I think you all know Captain Chakotay of Wolf Raider."_ _

__Voices answered in familiar greeting, and Tom re-assumed his barstool. "Now, where were we?"_ _

__"You had just silenced an observation post," supplied the Cardassian._ _

__"Ah, yes."_ _

__Chakotay made his way to an open spot a bit further down the bar as Tom continued a story he'd heard before. "Bourbon, neat."_ _

__"Captain?"_ _

__He looked to see the small Trill. Station counselor, he remembered, but her name escaped him._ _

__"Lieutenant," he returned._ _

__"That was quite... dramatic."_ _

__"I couldn't let that stand. I couldn't let someone call Tom a traitor."_ _

__"Is all that true? Is that really what he did?" she asked._ _

__"Captain -- No, Admiral. Admiral Janeway told me, and I believe it."_ _

__"Why?" she asked bluntly._ _

__Chakotay looked at her sharply, then was distracted by the arrival of his drink._ _

__"It's Ezri, right?" he suddenly remembered. She nodded. "Ezri, have you ever known anyone who acted like a person you couldn't respect, but when it came down to what they actually did you had to admire them?"_ _

__The Trill glanced at the bartender. "I think so, yes."_ _

__"When I first recruited Tom to the Maquis, I thought I saw something behind the arrogant flyboy._ _

__When he was caught so quickly, so easily, I thought I'd been wrong." Chakotay picked up his glass, smelled the liquor, but did not drink. "On Voyager, he did everything to make me keep thinking I'd been wrong about him, except when it mattered." Chakotay finally sipped, thinking an old thought: Except when it well and truly mattered._ _

__"You couldn't reconcile how he acted and how you thought he'd betrayed you with what he gave when it really counted." Ezri's voice had that familiar counseling tone, and he smiled sideways at her._ _

__"Concise and accurate." Chakotay put the glass down and spoke toward the bottles behind the bar. "My instincts about him told me it was all an act, a put on, except for those two times. Once he ran away, and once he led them after me. When Kathryn told me what really happened, I finally felt I understood his front for what it was." He shook his head to clear the moment of confession._ _

__She smiled, but she didn't back down. "So what's wrong now?"_ _

__In the same tone, but colored with bitterness, he answered, "He's not what he pretends to be, but neither am I." Chakotay sipped his drink again. "Now, Counselor, I think you're off duty."_ _

__"So I am," she admitted, "but you want my advice? Tell him what just happened over there. I don't think he understood."_ _

__"Professional opinion?"_ _

__She shook her head. "Personal, but based on years of experience. Good night, Captain."_ _

__Chakotay raised his glass in farewell, regarded it a moment, then drained it. Part of him always made grim 'Fire-water' jokes to himself when he did this. He moved to rejoin the little group around Paris, stepping up between Tom and Sisko. At a lull in the conversation he put a hand on Tom's shoulder._ _

__"I'm getting hungry. Join me for dinner?" A moment's hesitation before Tom answered, "Sure. Captain Sisko, care to come with us?" Sisko made his excuses, and reminded Tom of his promise to give his son an interview. Tom rose to go with Chakotay._ _

__"Tomorrow, doctor?"_ _

__"Oh nine hundred. Wouldn't miss it." The doctor bent in a courteous imitation of a bow._ _

__They passed Seven, who was deep in a technical conversation over a padd of schematics with the Ferengi. Tom put a hand on her shoulder. "Do you require nutrition at this time?"_ _

__She looked up at him. "I do not. I will see you in the infirmary in the morning."_ _

__"G'night then." They left the bar with a wake of good-byes, and Tom's public goodwill vanished with the last step onto the Promenade. "Now what?" His voice sounded both edgy and resigned._ _

__Chakotay was at a loss. He hadn't thought this through. "Can we have dinner in my quarters?" He sounded half-hearted, even to himself._ _

__"I didn't feel so welcome last time I was there." Tom's voice was flat. Chakotay offered no defense. They walked to be walking, without direction, without speaking. They ended up on the upper balcony, and Tom halted, leaning over the railing to look at the shops and people on the promenade below._ _

__Chakotay stopped beside him. Elbows on the rail, they regarded the scene._ _

__"What the _hell_ happened back there?" Tom's voice grated out between his teeth._ _

__Chakotay dropped his head to the support of praying hands. He felt completely foolish to say it, but he knew no other way. "My heart. I gave you my heart."_ _

__"What if I don't want it?"_ _

__"Too late." With the words an enormity of realization hit Chakotay: He simply loved the man, no matter what. He had put it aside when Tom disappeared, put it aside for war, pretended that it was only friendship and lust. His fear rose up again, fear that it was too late to make it right between them, fear that the true betrayal all along had been his. He had never before seen Tom uncolored by his own projections._ _

__Silently he shouted to himself, _Spirits, why am I so blind?__ _

__Somewhere inside the spirits answered with his father's voice, "You're looking out of the wrong eyes."_ _

__Chakotay answered the voice out loud, "What does that mean?"_ _

__"I don't know," Tom muttered, assuming the question was for him. "I didn't ask for your heart." He stood upright, rubbing his face with his palms, unconsciously demonstrating his exhaustion. "Well, what do you want me to do with it?"_ _

__Chakotay turned to lean with his back against the rail. "Keep it." He was equally tired._ _

__Tom raised his arms in a gesture that embraced the station, the day, the last few weeks. "I don't need this."_ _

__Something snapped in Chakotay He had itched all afternoon with an unfamiliar and uncomfortable self-loathing, and his irritation turned outward. His voice took on a rasp he didn't recognize, a snarl. "I don't care if you need it or not. Keep it, because I won't need it either. I'll just go back out there and do my job, and being a heartless bastard will make it that much easier." He knew he was attacking as a form of defense even as he spoke, but he didn't stop himself. He had made a true gesture in the bar, but if Tom wanted to ignore it, Chakotay could try to prevent a mere dismissal. He said deliberately, slowly, "Owen Paris school of command."_ _

__Tom grabbed his arm, fury rising. "Don't push my fucking buttons, Chakotay!" The grim wolf-smile he got in response made Tom jerk back._ _

__"Why not?" Chakotay nearly sneered. "It always works when you do it to me."_ _

__Tom's eyes searched his face with amazement, anger seemingly lost to surprise. "Who *are* you?" Chakotay simply looked back at him face set, and Tom backed down._ _

__He turned away and leaned on the railing again. "Don't do it, Chakotay."_ _

__"Do what?" Defensive._ _

__"Don't go heartless. Don't even try. It's not you."_ _

__"Who am I, Tom?" Mocking._ _

__Tom shook his head and turned back to stare down at the crowd, exhaustion again taking over his voice and his posture. "It's my turn, I guess."_ _

__"For what?" Chakotay's guard dropped a centimeter._ _

__"You've always been this rock for me, the one constant in the universe. Predictable." Tom laughed without humor, without looking up. "Today you are full of surprises."_ _

__Chakotay stared at the planes of Tom's profile a moment, some part of him remarking that the soft good looks he remembered had taken on the wild beauty of a hawk. The drink he'd taken earlier had gone straight from his empty stomach to his emotions, and he was flooded with images of a wolf on the ground, a hawk in the air. Neither could know the other's element. Earth and air, like some tragedy out of legend._ _

__With these thoughts, with the betrayal of alcohol, his anger dissipated as swiftly as it had risen, leaving behind an equally surprising sadness. He stared out the window at the stars, but they blurred into streaks. He didn't sob and wouldn't actually cry, but the facade had cracked. He ignored Tom. Chakotay had tried to make the strongest gesture he knew, and it was being rejected._ _

__Tom's frustration come out in a terse pleading. "If you don't pull yourself together, I'm selling your goddamn heart to the nearest Ferengi."_ _

__The absurdity of the thought broke through Chakotay's wall. He turned from the window to the railing, looking at the milling crowds and regaining command of his voice. "Won't get much for it," he answered, clinging to the kind of humor they had once shared. "It's used."_ _

__Chakotay could see that Tom was uncertain what to do, and to his complete surprise, Tom leaned forward and kissed his barely responsive lips._ _

__"Come on," Tom said. "You're sorry. So am I. How about that dinner?"_ _


	4. Chapter 4

In the end they went back to Wolf Raider, Chakotay's momentary break in control an unmentioned barrier. Dinner was something simple from the replicator, but it hardly mattered what they ate. It hardly mattered what they talked about when they did try to speak. Chakotay kept coming back to the image of the wolf and the hawk, and wondered if they would ever truly meet. By the end of the meal it still wasn't clear. 

He rose and cleared the dishes. Without thinking he ordered a bourbon from the replicator, this time synthehol. He felt Tom's eyes on him, but he covered by asking, "Anything for you?"

"No, thanks." 

Chakotay felt the continued glare as he sat down across from Tom, who asked, "Chak, when did you start drinking?"

"A while ago. You still doing Violet?" Chakotay's question about the drug was a deliberate defense, just as Tom's use of an unwelcome nickname was a deliberate attack. 

Tom backed down. "Not since my father was killed."

Chakotay carefully set his glass aside, untouched. "Do you want to talk about that?"

Tom shook his head, but he spoke anyway. "I... The thing that got to me, really got to me, was that he never apologized and he died before I could make him."

"Never apologize for disowning you. And that's why you nearly killed yourself to take revenge on the Founders? Not because they killed him, but because they killed him too soon? Before he would admit that you'd proven yourself to him?"

"That Betazoid medic made me see a lot of things. Not very pretty, is it?"

Chakotay got up and walked around behind him, resting his hands on Tom's shoulders and brushing the ponytail aside with one thumb. He let the warmth flow into Tom's muscles, hoping Tom would permit the touch. When there was no objection, he began a slow massage, thumbs tracing a firm line up the neck. It was something he was good at, and a neck rub was something Tom used to enjoy. "You're tense."

"Yeah, well." The sandy head bent forward, accepting and encouraging.

"How long since you've had a massage?"

Tom grunted under his fingers when he dug them into the tense muscles. "Too long."

Chakotay took a deep breath. "Would you like one?"

"You trying to get me naked again?" He heard humor, but no sarcasm in Tom's voice.

"Maybe," Chakotay joked back. Tom's tone augered well, so he tried to broach the subject again. "Tom, was that why the big revenge quest? This whole 'not good enough' issue?"

Tom reached up to take the brown hands in his own, turning his face to nuzzle one of Chakotay's palms. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't counsel me."

"What do you want?"

"I heard the word massage."

Massage was the excuse, but it was a night of small revelations and reminders. Chakotay found and worked every nerve of Tom's that would respond, from the lightest touch receptor to the deepest kinesthetic sensor. For the first time since the Jem'Hadar weapon, Tom told him softly, he felt fully alive. 

They were both partly dressed, with Tom in the compression pants and Chakotay wearing his uniform trousers. The touches turned to caresses, and Tom must have been aware of the arousal that Chakotay was trying to hide. He seemed to respect Chakotay's unspoken wish, and dutifully ignored it. The touching, the presence, that was enough. It was more than enough. 

Eventually Chakotay rose and went into the bathroom. After a few long moments he returned, undressed, and pulled the covers back. He lay down next to Tom's shoulder and pulled up the bedding, willing his body to relax. as he splayed his fingers over Tom's chest. 

What had happened? What did it mean to have given his heart that way? It felt like both a stupid romantic gesture and a complete act of trust. His thought from the afternoon, that he was something less than Tom, had not been shaken. But this was Tom. The smell of him, the feel of him under his fingers -- all of these things woke his memories of long nights in the Delta Quadrant. The memories had almost been written over in the years since their return.

It was good just to touch him.

"Cha." Tom always stretched the syllable so that it took longer to say than the consonants of his full name. He did not say it often. There was forgiveness in the sound, and satisfaction, but the lingering disquiet in Chakotay gathered force. 

His fingers flexed against Tom's chest, drawing a question. "You okay?" 

"Sure." Tom probably knew it for the lie it was. 

"Chakotay." A mock threat. 

Chakotay couldn't answer. In the past few years their rare couplings had been tinged with frantic passion, competition even, ending usually with Tom beneath him. This was a connection just as physical, but entirely different. Chakotay thought again of the sessions they had shared on Voyager when they had the time. Remembering Voyager brought a thought that made him laugh.

"What?"

"I was just thinking that I missed the safe, predictable routine of the Delta Quadrant."

Tom coughed at the absurdity of the statement, then laughed with him. "Well, I wouldn't have put it that way when we were there, but you've got a point."

"The Jem'Hadar make the Kazon look like pushovers."

"Yeah, but I'll bet the Hirogen could give them a good fight."

"'Worthy prey.'" Chakotay imitated the hunting species' pedantic tones.

They laughed together, more than the joke was worth. Finally Tom said, "Chakotay?"

"Mmm?"

"Back then it seemed like your rituals anchored your life, but you always kept them pretty much to yourself. I know what that cost you, back in the bar. I was still pissed-off, but I want to tell you --" Tom broke off, then took a breath. "I don't think I really understand it, but thank you."

Chakotay debated a moment before saying, "Remember how I said I owed you my life?"

"What, on the Ocampa home world? We've been through this, Chief." Again, Chakotay could hear the deliberate use of an unwelcome name. "That debt's been repaid how many times?." Tom's voice tightened with suspicion.

"This isn't a debt. It's a gift."

Tom sighed and reached to run his fingers through the brush cut. "It's a hell of a responsibility, y'know."

Chakotay kissed the shoulder beneath his head. "I trust you."

*

Chakotay woke slowly, and it took him several minutes to remember who was in his bed. Harry Kim wasn't the only one who'd taken up casual affairs. Oh, Chakotay said no to the men, but often enough when a woman showed interest it was easy to take the comfort offered. But this was Tom. It was Tom, and all of yesterday was real and not comfortable at all.

He'd been pulled from a dream he couldn't recall, hearing Tom's voice repeating, "Your rituals anchor you."

That was the problem, though. Except for the impromptu gestures with Tom in the bar he hadn't kept up his practice of meditation, of Visions. He felt adrift, to stretch the anchor metaphor, although his direction and purpose had long been guided by the winds of Starfleet orders and the tides of war. He left the bed quietly and pulled on a robe. It took him a few seconds to even remember where he had left the device, and when he pulled it out, he paused. The Akoonah.

It had been modified to suit Starfleet, which had official objections to an 'hallucinogenic device' in the first place. A black attachment connected with the ship's computer system, programmed to safely bring him out of a trance when an alarm sounded. Or when the brass simply wanted to talk to him. He resented the imposition, but sitting there looking at it, he realized the resentment had been mischanneled toward the Akoonah itself. He hadn't placed his fingers on it for over a year. He wasn't sure why it called him now, but the tug was unrelenting. He sat for a moment trying to center himself. He breathed the words to begin, and reached down toward the amber light.

*--*

Tom woke to coffee waved under his nose. He squinted up at the offering, blearily tracing the path from hand to arm, and finally to the face. It was unacceptably smiling.

"Mmph," he mumbled. "You're 'way too cheery. What time is it?"

"Oh-seven-thirty. I've been up working for an hour." Chakotay nudged the prone form. "Don't you meet Bashir at nine?"

"Let me smell that coffee again."

"I think drinking it would work better. Breakfast?"

"Put that thing away and let me feast on you," Tom answered dramatically. Chakotay took him at his word, bending down as if to kiss, then barely brushing his lips over Tom's. A second pass, then he licked softly across the mouth. With that, Tom grabbed his head in frustration and kissed him deeply.

When the kiss broke, Chakotay stood and grinned down at Tom, who glared at him. "You are one crazy man."

"Who you calling crazy? I just accepted an invitation to feast on you and was sampling the menu." Chakotay held up the mug. "You want this or not?"

Tom wanted to know what had lightened the mood, but he didn't ask. It was easier just to accept. Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Chakotay in the mood he called 'Crazy Indian', and he wondered what had prompted it. He reached for the coffee. "Give."

Chakotay handed him the mug and fetched the brace. He grunted at the weight as he brought it over. "Last time for this beast, eh?"

"I am not going to miss it."

*

Tom declined Chakotay's help, strapped himself into the machine, and dealt with the morning necessities. It took a while, but they made it to the station infirmary with plenty of time. Bashir was waiting, but Seven had not yet arrived.

After a round of greetings, the doctor began to examine Tom. He looked at the readings on the medical tricorder with evident suspicion, and performed the scan again.

"Something wrong?" asked Tom.

Bashir hesitated. "I... I don't think your injury was quite as severe as you thought." The doctor pursed his lips. "Most of your paralysis is from spinal shock, which I can easily remedy."

Tom looked surprised. "Just spinal shock? And the rest?"

"Oh, there is some degeneration, and much of it is work I can do here. But perhaps not all of it. I, uh, need to check something in the medical banks."

Tom interrupted before he could turn away. "May I borrow your comm system?" His voice was neutral, even solicitous. It was a tone that always made Chakotay nervous.

The doctor covered his confusion at the non sequitur. "Of course." He gestured toward a screen.

Tom stood up from the biobed where he'd been sitting, and moved to stand in front of the panel. Chakotay heard him contact the Logan and asked for Ba'ruq.

"Paris!" The Klingon voice said. "What's your trouble?" The phrase seemed to be their usual greeting.

Tom's tone still held that solicitous politeness.

"My trouble, Ba'ruq, is much less than I thought it was."

Apparently the Klingon knew the tone as well as Chakotay did. The voice was immediately cautious. "How do you mean?"

"I mean you're going to come down to the station infirmary and explain why you and Treyn Dahl lied to me."

"About what?" The voice continued quickly, "And you know I can't go on that station."

"Sure you can," Tom answered smoothly. "It'll be much worse if you don't get your sorry Klingon ass over here. Bring the Betazoid." 

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can," Tom repeated, and the cajoling tones carried threat.

Chakotay heard a deep sigh over the comm link. "We'll be there," Ba'ruq said, resigned. "I'll see you in ten minutes if I don't get killed on the way."

Tom broke the connection and leaned over the control panel. Chakotay came to stand next to him and put his hand on the bent back. "What was that all about?"

"Near as I can tell, they lied to me about my injury." 

Tom stood, and Chakotay dropped his hand, asking, "Why would they do that?"

"That's what I'm going to find out."

They returned to the main room, and before Chakotay could ask why Ba'ruq was worried he'd be killed, Seven of Nine strode in.

"Tom Paris. Captain Chakotay," she greeted them. "I apologize for arriving late."

"Were you up all night with that Ferengi?" Tom asked, innuendo in his voice.

Her forehead implant moved up like an eyebrow. "No. I was running some simulations based on one of his suggestions."

"Well, whatever you were doing, we may not need you here anyway."

"Explain."

Bashir's voice answered as he rejoined them, "He's not half as bad off as he thought he was, but he's got enough problems that I want to send him on to Starfleet medical."

Chakotay furrowed his brow. "All the way to Earth?"

"I'm afraid so. They have some equipment that hasn't quite, uh, reached the frontier." Bashir visibly brightened as he continued, "But we can still get you into much better shape. You'll only need the prosthetic conductors for your more distal parts."

Tom seemed to have followed, but Chakotay asked, "What does that mean?"

"I can fix him basically to his knees, but the, uh, offered Borg technology would still be useful." The doctor smiled. "I'll go prepare the surgery and we can get those old implants removed."

Tom watched Bashir leave, then asked Seven, "What time is it?"

"Nine twenty-three."

"They've got one minute," he grumbled.

"They?" Seven asked.

"My so solicitous caretakers." Tom stared toward the entrance, face a bland mask that belied his tones.

Seven looked at Chakotay for explanation, but he could only shrug. Not many seconds later a cloaked figure entered, and Tom looked at it, saying, "Ba'ruq, you're alone."

The hood of the cloak was tossed back as the figure inside growled, "Dahl is gone."

Chakotay didn't hear the next part of the conversation. The man Tom named as Ba'ruq sounded Klingon, but he looked like no Klingon he'd ever seen. For one thing the face was rounded, and the body thick in a way that spoke more of sitting than of action. He was dressed in black, not as a warrior, with a long vest similar to Tom's, but dark. His hair was cut in shoulder-length layers, and he was a bit shorter than most Klingon warriors. The most surprising feature, though, was the lack of skull ridges. The coarse dark hair swept over a decidedly smooth forehead.

Chakotay picked up the conversation again. Ba'ruq was saying, "He thought it was the only way to convince you to come to a station run by Starfleet."

"But technically Bajoran, so I wouldn't refuse outright." Tom's posture conveyed contained fury, but his voice still held that dangerously controlled tone. "*You* should try spending two weeks in this contraption you built. I ought to make you go back to the ship without your damn cloak."

The Klingon looked away. "We thought we were doing the right thing for you."

"You didn't ask me."

"You would have said no." He scowled beneath his beard, a standard warrior goatee. "You are more stubborn than my bone-headed brethren."

"You lied to me." Chakotay watched Tom from behind, seeing the tension in the shoulders belie the smooth voice.

"Paris, it was the only way to slow you down. You were going to let yourself die, and if he'd healed you outright what would you have done?" Ba'ruq was challenging and pleading all at once.

"It was a good day to die," Tom quoted, unmoved.

Ba'ruq drew back. "Do not use those words with me!"

"Why not? You denied me a warrior's death."

A growl rose in the Klingon's chest, and Chakotay looked from one to the other. He marveled at Tom's manipulations. The Klingon, if Klingon he was, was being pushed, but had checked his anger. "Dahl convinced me it was the right thing to do."

"Of course," Tom answered evenly, perhaps dismissively. "Dahl's a telepath and would have known my intentions."

"He told me you wanted to die."

As Ba'ruq gained control, Tom lost it. "No! But better to die than this!" He lifted one leg, pulling up the pants to show the brace. "I thought I was going to spend the next few _years_ in this thing! And now I find out he should have been able to do more, that I shouldn't have needed this at all."

"Better that than you dead. He told me you would get better treatment here, and he's the one who suggested we contact Seven of Nine. And we got you out of Dominion territory."

Chakotay leaned over to Seven. She was staring at Tom's companion, and he whispered, "What's going on? You ever seen a Klingon like that?"

Her eyes shifted to Chakotay's, and she did not whisper. "His kind were exterminated by the Klingons you know. I was surprised to see one of his race alive when I met him yesterday." 

Ba'ruq heard her, and looked over to answer. "There are a few thousand of us left. It's a good thing that General Martok is off station with most of his warriors, or I might not have made it here." He glanced back to Tom briefly. "Only for you, Paris," he said, glowering. "Seven, the all-knowing. Who's your friend?"

Tom gestured his them closer. "Ba'ruq, meet Chakotay." 

Ba'ruq drew himself up into a formal stance. "My friend names you as his friend, and I have heard him sing your praises many a long night." He raised his hand to his chest in traditional Klingon salute. 

Eyes beneath fierce brows rested on Chakotay for a moment, a moment long enough for him to think that the eyes at least were certainly Klingon. The intensity of the gaze left no doubt that the soft features belonged to a strong-willed being. Chakotay had no sense of what the man was thinking, and he was surprised when the head jerked sideways to indicate Tom, and the gruff voice said, "Was he always this insufferable?"

Chakotay laughed out loud. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but the question caught him off guard. He shook his head to answer and said, "He used to be worse." Ba'ruq coughed in disbelief.

Bashir declared his presence with an answering noise deep in his throat as he emerged from an inner room. He had changed to red surgery garb, and he walked up to Tom. "We're almost ready. It's time to get you prepared." He turned to the Borg. "Seven -- may I call you that?"

Her answer was dry. "That is my designation."

Bashir blinked, clearly flustered by her. Tom watched, amused, remembering the man's enthusiasm the night before. "I'm, uh, Dr. Bashir, but you probably know that. Perhaps you'd like to get your... things, uh, ready?"

"I will need the medical data you collected and an outline of your intended procedures before I can make final adjustments."

"Yes, of course." Bashir picked up a padd and the medical tricorder. "Just let me download the data into this," he said, indicating the recorder and the data device in turn. He turned away and went to a console.

Chakotay leaned into Tom. "I guess I'll go. Call me when you're done, if she leaves you with any will of your own," he joked.

Tom pulled back and looked at him cooly. "I'm not sure who upgraded your drivers, Chakotay, but believe me you're in big trouble when I get better."

He leaned to whisper his answer. "I certainly hope so." He meant it. Chakotay turned to Ba'ruq. It was only then that he noticed that the Klingon had faded into the background. The doctor hadn't even appeared to notice him. "Can I walk with you back to the Logan?"

A sardonic growl answered, "If you don't mind risking your life."

The tattooed head jerked to indicate Tom, imitating the Klingon's earlier gesture. "For the friend of my friend, I'll risk a bit of something."


	5. Chapter 5

Tom could recall little about the procedure. Once the biobed's arching restraints were in place he was disconnected from his body's sensation, or even from the thought of what might be happening. A small part of his medical training came to mind, and it comforted him slightly to think, "Anesthesia by dissociatives and neural suppression." He didn't realize he was chanting a mantra he recited each time he'd undergone any serious procedure. This time, as with every time, it was a new thought.

When it was over he regained consciousness quickly, and immediately tried to move his legs. To his relief, the hip flexors worked, and he could actually feel the weight of his thighs and buttocks on the bed. He could bend his knees slightly, but there was no response when he tried to flex his ankles or move his toes. Even so, this was progress that he had expected to take almost a year, and only now did he realize how much fear he'd been suppressing. A casual brush over his groin reassured him that he had sensation there as well. That was a particular relief.

Bashir noticed his movements, and hurried over to the side of the bed. "Ah, you're with us," he said delightedly. "We were waiting for you to recover. Seven of Nine insisted on testing your voluntary movements before adding her, uh, 'additions'."

Paris' eyes scanned for Seven, and found her several meters away ostensibly staring at a padd. Her eyes were unfocused, though, and he suspected she was doing some internal re-programming. As if feeling his gaze she looked up, and Tom thought he saw a hesitancy in her face. He had the distinct impression that she had qualms, and that she was mentally cursing the lack of 'efficient Borg communication' with him. He nodded at her slowly, trying to convey that he knew something might be wrong, then raised his brows in a flicker of question.

"Well, what do you feel?" Bashir's question took Tom's attention from any response Seven might have made. 

"Um, just like you said: Everything," he paused for emphasis, "down to my knees pretty much, just where you'd expect the dermatomes to be. Funny to apply neuroanatomy on yourself." Tom tried to look pleased -- he was -- but Seven's expression had him worried. He looked over to her. "Ready to assimilate me?"

She walked toward them, and held out her hand to Bashir. "Medical tricorder," she demanded in the tone that had made B'Elanna want to hit her in the early days. The doctor handed her the instrument, seemingly not bothered by her rudeness. He was more interested in the exoskeleton of the hand holding the probe. 

Seven looked at the data, and ran Tom through a short series of tests. Finally she said, "I am ready. Are you?" Tom tried to find some hidden meaning, some sense of the source of her concern, but failed. 

Obliquely pressing for more, he said, "I guess this time Captain Proton needs rescuing, huh?"

Seven nearly smiled, catching his reference to the holodeck serial Tom had played back on Voyager. Still, she kept a guarded face as she answered, "But who knows what evil machinations are plotted around our hero this time?"

"Excuse me?" Bashir was clearly surprised. Seven had only spoken in rather Borg tones until now. 

"Voyager joke. They're an inside thing," Tom reassured him smoothly, still convinced that Seven was trying to tell him there was something was going on. To Seven he said, "Well, can the beautiful assistant save the day?"

"Of course." She returned to her formal, emotionless demeanor. "You are ready?"

"Go to it." Tom's voice was heartier than he felt. He suddenly wished Chakotay had not left. 

Seven had Bashir clear the room of assistants, then folded the blanket up from Tom's feet, exposing his legs as far as the knees. She looked at him again, as if assessing his willingness. He nodded. She held her fist out, pointed at Tom's legs, and the assimilation tubules snaked out from the back of her exoskeleton. They separated, and buried themselves in the outside walls of each of Tom's knees. 

Bashir gasped outloud. Tom's own stomach quailed for all that he could feel nothing. The tubules withdrew within a few seconds, and Seven said dispassionately, "It will take a few minutes."

They waited in tense silence until suddenly dark pieces of biomachinery erupted with a small whirring noise from the tubules' entry sites, first on one leg, then the other. This was worse than the tubes going in. The machines formed into bands that stretched half way around the upper calf. Tom watched as his toes started to twitch of their own volition. It was a stranger thing than the old brace, which had grossly stimulated his muscles in an uncontrolled series of twitches. These movements were fine, delicate. His ankles flexed his feet around in slow circles.

"It is testing itself," Seven remarked. "You should begin to have conscious control soon."

Bashir reached for the medical tricorder, but Seven moved it out of his reach. "No."

"But this is amazing!" 

Tom agreed, but thought the doctor tended to overstate things. His attention, though, was on his feet, and the fleeting sensation of movement that was coming into his awareness. He hadn't bargained on feeling; he'd only hoped for control. He reached down to pinch his calf, and whooped when it hurt.

The noise interrupted the silent argument glaring over his head, and the Borg and the doctor looked at him. "Pain!" he exclaimed happily, and returned to watching his feet. The apparent systems check was winding down, so Tom made a few experimental attempts to flex voluntarily, and his extremities responded. He swung his legs to the side, and made as if to hop down. The doctor, from the far side, tried to stop him, but Seven offered her hand in assistance.

"It will take a bit of practice, but you and the implants should be communicating perfectly in a matter of hours." 

Tom found balancing to be fairly easy, and took a step. It was no more awkward than Ba'ruq and Dahl's brace had been, and was improving by the second. "No dancing yet, but this is just great, Seven." He turned his head to Bashir. "Nice job on the top half, doc. You two made a good team."

"My part was simple," Bashir answered. "Her's was fascinating." Irritation could be heard; he clearly wanted to know more about the implants than simple observations by eye could tell him. Seven and Paris ignored the obvious hint.

Harry Kim's voice came from the next room. "I'm looking for Tom Paris."

"In here," Paris called out. Harry came into the doorway, stopped and folded his arms. 

"Well, you're the right height again, but you've still got to get a better tailor."

Tom plucked at the fabric of the infirmary gown. "It's the latest thing in assimilation wear." 

"Let me see 'em?"

"Sure. Stay and help me get dressed if I need it." Tom looked pointedly at Bashir and Seven, and they stepped through the door of the room, leaving him with Harry.

Tom told his friend where to find his clothes, and spent his next few minutes alone testing his legs. His control felt nearly complete, and he wondered what the hell Dahl had been thinking to leave him paralyzed. Spinal shock, Bashir had said. Tom had enough medical training that could have taken care of that himself. As he flexed, balanced, and brooded, he was distracted by an awkward conversation from the next room. It sounded like the doctor was trying to ask the Borg on a date.

"If you like holoprograms, we've got quite an interesting one at Quark's," Bashir was saying. "It's a recreation of a lounge from Earth's twentieth century with the best entertainment in the quadrant."

"Is that an overstatement, doctor, or do you have data to that effect?"

"Well, I, uh, guess it's an opinion." The voice pressed on, "It's really quite entertaining."

Seven's voice dead-panned, "Entertainment is irrelevant."

Bashir didn't give up easily. "Don't you ever need any R and R?"

"I regenerate as necessary. Relaxation is irrelevant."

"Ah, well. Too bad then." Tom heard Bashir cover his embarrassment by moving away. Harry entered seconds after, barely containing his laughter.

"You hear that?" he asked, handing over the bundle of clothing.

Tom nodded, and bit his lip to keep from laughing. Before he put his pants on, they stopped to look at the external curves of the Borg implants. 

"How long will you need these?" Harry asked.

"Not sure. Seven thinks she's set it up so the old nerves will re-grow on top of the nanoprobes, but if the body thinks everything is functioning it may not bother to do repairs. If it ain't broke..." Tom ran his fingers over the curving bands, intricately marked with Borg circuitry. He found them strangely attractive. "Bashir wants to send me to Starfleet Medical, but maybe I'll just keep these as another token of galactic unity." 

Harry laughed at him, but shook his head. "You'll need more than that. Klingon clothing, Betazoid decorations, Bajoran earrings," he said, handing that last to Tom. "How about a ketrecel white tube in the neck so you can show your solidarity with the Jem'Hadar?"

Tom threw his pants at Harry, and Harry threw them back, still laughing.

He couldn't yet balance to put on his pants standing up, but even sitting down to put his feet into the legs was a welcome contrast to man-handling his extremities into the leggings of his old prosthesis. The humor of Bashir hitting on Seven and the pleasure in simple control of his body pushed Tom toward a good mood. The company didn't hurt, either. He put his thoughts of the Betazoid's failure aside entirely and looked up at Harry.

"What brought you down here? Playing hookey from Captain Chakotay?"

"I thought I'd like to see you without the big man around."

"Something on your mind, Har'?" He affected casualness. Harry wasn't one to come looking for a shoulder if things were bad, and Tom wasn't really in the mood for any heavy conversation.

"Nothing really. I just don't get to see you much."

"So you're seeing me." Tom stood with his arms out, dressed again in the loose trousers and the long vest. "Lunch?"

"Sure. You going barefoot?"

Tom hadn't needed shoes with the brace, and he looked down at his toes. "I guess we can go shopping first?" They stepped out into the main room where Seven was waiting patiently, and Bashir busied himself at a console. 

Seven watched Tom's progress. "How are they functioning?"

"Adequately." He flashed a brief smile.

Bashir turned at the sound of the voices and walked over to them. The doctor looked at Tom's covered legs as if he'd invented walking himself. "That's just splendid! You should have no trouble until you get full repairs at Starfleet. As I, uh, mentioned, they have some equipment I can't get out here, and it should be able to restore full function for the extremities."

Tom eyed the doctor. "The Borg implant seems to be doing the trick."

"Ah. Well," Bashir back pedaled. "I hope you'll consider it. I took the liberty of contacting them. I just thought you might want to have your own nerves restored."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Paris replied smoothly, wondering why the hell Bashir thought Runner Tom Paris be welcome at Starfleet Headquarters. "I'll let you know. Thanks for your help."

"Not at all." The doctor's smile never reached his eyes. "Glad to be of service. What shall we do with the old brace?"

Tom wanted to ask for a phaser and just melt the thing, but if he knew Ba'ruq, there was a tricorder needing a control panel and slots waiting for the EPS backups that had been pulled from the conduits of the Logan and cobbled together to make the damn thing. "Can you have it taken to the Logan?"

"Certainly. Now if you'll excuse me?"

Kim, Paris and Seven stepped out onto the Promenade, and Harry leaned into Seven. "'Entertainment is irrelevant'? You haven't talked like that in years."

She chuckled softly in response. "It is sometimes useful to recall my former responses to such queries." She shot an arch look at Harry, and he laughed, remembering his early attempts to talk to her

Tom elbowed her from the other side. "But you didn't brush off that Ferengi ensign, huh?"

"He has a good technical mind." Her voice was dead-pan.

Tom and Harry's eyes caught each other before they rolled in opposite directions.

"Seh-vin?" Harry drawled in teasing threat.

"What?" she answered.

"Give it up, Har'," Tom laughed. "I doubt you'll ever get a straight answer out of her about sex."

"Who was talking about sex?" Kim protested innocently.

Tom gave a bark of laughter, but Seven of Nine continued walking serenely. Harry changed the subject. "So what's for lunch? Hasparat?"

"I must regenerate," Seven said. Looking pointedly at Tom she continued, "My cycle will be complete in only three hours. Please join me afterward so we can asses your implants' integration. I will have a few... pointers for you."

"All right." Tom looked at her wide blue eyes carefully, and they blinked slowly. "How about at the holosuites at that bar, Quark's?. Maybe they have Captain Proton."

"The holosuites will be acceptable, but I have brought my own program." To Harry she said, "Commander Kim, would you join me for dinner? I would like to discuss Ensign Nog's ideas with you."

"Sure, I'd like that." Harry smiled, genuinely pleased. "Come find me on Wolf Raider when you're done with Tom."

She bent in that slight bow of hers, and turned to leave them. Tom caught up with her after a few steps. "What's really going on?" he whispered, looking to see that Harry was out of earshot.

"It is..." she paused, then found her word: "complicated. I will tell you everything I know in three hours."

Tom let her go, and rejoined Harry. 

"What's going on, Tom?" 

Paris pretended the question was general. "Oh the usual. I got my feet back, and the best part is now I'll actually know when I want to take a piss."

Harry laughed obligingly, but this time he was not to be deflected. "Everything okay with you and the big man?"

"Why the sudden interest?"

"Tom, nothing personal, but every time you two have seen each other the last few years, he's a serious pain in the ass for weeks after. This morning he's smiling, whistling even. What'd you do different?"

Tom shrugged. He wasn't sure what had brought the change, and he wasn't willing to discuss what had happened yesterday. "I don't know. He was in full crazy mode this morning, grinning like Coyote in one of his people's stories."

Harry looked at Tom. "Never thought of it that way. I guess I don't ever get to see that side of him, but then, I didn't live with him."

A fine-boned finger ran up around the swinging earring, in a new gesture of thoughtfulness. "I haven't seen him like that in years."

"Since we got back," Harry qualified. It was not a question.

"Yeah." 

"So Tom," Harry began, then hesitated.

"So what?"

"So what's for lunch?"

That hadn't been Harry's true thought, but Tom let it go. "I don't know. How about that hasparat stuff?"

Harry grinned. "How hot can you take it, helm boy?"

"Hotter'n you, Ensign."

Tom stopped to comm Chakotay and to ask after Ba'ruq. They'd made it to the Logan without incident, and Tom was relieved. He was kicking himself for putting his friend at risk, but he was still confused and angry that they'd lied to him about his injury. Ba'ruq was forgiven, but if Treyn Dahl, the Betazoid medic, ever showed up, he'd have to answer to Tom.

Tom ended the call by making dinner plans. Chakotay's voice was teasing, happy, and Tom wanted to find out why. He had a good mystery and a disturbing one each to solve. Now for shoes and food.

He found a good pair of boots. They were the first he'd spotted, but out of a secret joy at having his legs back he had to try on several different styles. He made his purchase before Harry got truly annoyed with him, then they made their way to a Bajoran restaurant.

Lunch was fiery with spice, and the talk was good. Tom answered all of Harry's questions, and Harry confided that he'd turned down two promotion offers to stay on Wolf Raider with Chakotay. The offers hadn't been that great, but he would have made Captain while in his early thirties. He said he turned the offers down because they weren't good enough, but Tom suspected that life close to the front lines kept Harry from having to think about B'Elanna or their daughter. Harry spoke of them only glancingly, and Tom didn't pursue. When the conversation waned, he brought up some old Voyager stories. When those failed, he suggested a game of pool.

They went to Quark's, inquired about holosuites, and managed to secure a billiards program. Tom left word to tell Seven where he was, and went up the stairs, data crystal in hand. They had an hour before Seven was expected.

The program was the opposite of Sandrine's, their old holographic haunt. This was a formal, well-lit billiard parlor with plush carpet, good lighting, and no smell of old beer. They played two games in companionable silence, and it was the most relaxed time the two friends had spent together in years. 

Tom sat on a plush stool, resting his legs as he watched his friend. The illusion of the previous day, that Harry was the same old Harry, didn't hold up over time. Tom finally ventured, "Chakotay tells me you've picked up my old habits."

Harry leaned over to line up a shot before answering, "Meaning what?"

"I believe the phrase was 'casual affairs'."

There was a crack as Harry took his shot, and a grunt of annoyance when he missed. Tom stood, circled the table, picked his target and bent over to aim. Before he could strike the white cue ball, Harry said, "He doesn't have any room to criticize."

Tom froze except for the pool cue sliding back and forth on the fingers of his left hand, and he was no longer thinking about practical Newtonian physics. He finally hit the ball, and the answering ricochet was simply random. He remained bent over with his hands on the edge of the table. "Men or women?" He wasn't sure why it mattered; he didn't have room to criticize either.

"Women. You gonna let me take my shot?"

Tom stood up, and picked up his cue, returning to his seat. "Sorry. Well, at least we've got women in common," he said, picking up the thread. "So is he a serious pain in the ass after he gets together with one of them?"

Harry smiled up from his side of the table. "Nah. You're the only one that does that to him."

A few more shots passed. Harry was winning this game as he had the first two. Tom hadn't played in a while, and he was still getting used to having control of his legs.

He tried another subject. "So why haven't you taken a promotion? You like working for a pain in the ass?"

Harry sank a ball, and circled for a winning shot. His reply was seemingly disjoint. "How many of Voyager's crew joined the Runners?"

"A few. Ayala, some others. I don't see them, really. Why?" 

Harry didn't answer. The eight ball cracked sharply into a pocket. Tom watched him gather the balls and re-rack them, all with an expression as serious and as earnest as on his first green day out of the Academy. "Nobody else understands, Tom. Compared to being in the Delta Quadrant, this war is simple."

Tom laughed softly, and Harry looked at him sharply. "Sorry. It's just that Chakotay and I had the opposite conversation last night. The Delta Quadrant seemed simpler to us."

It took his friend a few moments to understand. Finally he said, "Oh. For you I guess it was." He seemed disappointed.

"Harry, I think I know what you mean. When you're around non- 'Fleet people, they don't know what it's like to be 'Fleet, and they have all kinds of stupid assumptions." Tom leaned against the wall, bouncing his cue on the toe of his new boots. "People make stupid assumptions about Voyager, too."

"Yeah. Your break."

Tom leaned over, aimed, and scattered the packed triangle of solids and stripes with a well-aimed shot. Nothing landed in a pocket, though, and he turned the table over to Harry.

Tom watched him sink two, complimenting him on the second, particularly tricky shot. Harry had become quite a good player, but he missed the third, and Tom stepped up to the table. As he looked for an opening he said, "Harry?"

"Yeah." 

"He feels the same way about having you there, about being around someone from Voyager."

Harry was quiet as Tom aimed, sunk a ball, then missed his followup. Finally he said, "I know, but thanks for saying it."

The chime of someone requesting entrance punctuated Harry's words. Tom walked toward the holosuite door, and as he passed Harry, he clapped him on the shoulder.

At the door was Seven of Nine, not looking particularly regenerated, Tom thought.

Tom conceded the game to Harry, and the commander took his leave. Seven stopped him at the door, ending the billiard program and handing him the crystal. "Please return this to that odious bartender."

Harry's smile was lopsided and wry. "I'll tell him you said that."

She snorted in a terse laugh. "Do that. I will see you for dinner," she reminded as he left.

Seven had brought her own data crystal, and she inserted it in the holosuite control panel.

"Computer run zeta two two seven."

The walls of the holosuite dissolved into a pale white room, furnished with gym equipment. It was difficult to see the walls, or ceiling, and even the floor was defined only by their feet and the bases of the exercise machines. It was like a workout room from a bad holonovel about the afterlife.

"Nice place. The perfect Borg workout?"

"More than that," she answered. "This program also locks out all listening devices, whether in the main computer or running independently."

"Seems a little extreme for just an exercise program."

Seven looked at him. "This is not 'just' anything."

Paris studied her more carefully, but it didn't take familiarity to know that she was deeply upset. "All right. What's going on?"

"You have been used."


	6. Chapter 6

Paris ran through the docking ring, heedless of the station personnel who had to get out of his way. Parts of his mind noted the jangling of the earring, the fact that he was running at all, how out of shape he was for the sprint, but none of that mattered. He had to get to Ba'ruq. One thing for damn sure he missed about Starfleet was comm badges.

The airlock to the Logan was open, and a few Bajoran technicians were leaving the vessel. Tom pushed past them but was forced by his labored breathing and deteriorated leg muscles to slow to a walk. He started toward the engine room, but realized that with strangers on board, the Klingon would be keeping himself out of sight.

He stopped at a computer panel and brought up the comm system. "Paris to Ba'ruq," he panted.

"Ba'ruq here. What's your trouble?" the harsh voice answered testily.

"Big trouble. Where are you?"

"My quarters."

"I'll be there in five."

The Logan was not a big ship, needing only a crew of twenty or so. After the last run, there were only twelve of the original Runners left, supplemented by seven members of the crew of Paris' destroyed ship. Logan's captain had been killed, and even though he was injured himself Tom had taken over thoughtlessly, treating the remaining crew as his own. That had been the mistake. It wasn't that they weren't glad of the Paris legend in the captain's chair. No, the mistake was trusting them as if they were his own.

Ba'ruq's origins were a well-guarded secret, known only to his shipmates. Tom thought he was as good an engineer as B'Elanna. In fact, Tom's main contact with Seven over the last year had been based on her decision keep them constantly abreast of the warp modifications. Ba'ruq had spent his free time either implementing the changes or critiquing them, and B'Elanna never knew where some of Seven's more controversial 'insights' had originated. Tom thought of him as a gift from the universe, and forgot how despised he would be among the Klingons of the Empire.

Klingons with smooth foreheads, a minority even long ago, had once ruled the Empire. There was much speculation that Ba'ruq's people were descended in part from an invading species. They had not been kind to those with skull-ridges, and the overthrow of the old rulers of the Empire had been bloody, but it had been silent. Not even the Federation really knew what had happened, or if someone did, it was never taught in schools. Even Ba'ruq was circumspect.

Now Ba'ruq would be hiding, letting some team of strangers repair the ship, only going down later to check the work. Tom knew how it galled him, but his pride was of an altogether different sort than the brash honor of other Klingons Tom knew. Ba'ruq understood the value of patience and discretion. All orders and requests still went through him, but to the strangers on board he was only a faceless voice.

Tom buzzed the door of the quarters. 

"Paris?" 

"Yep. Open up."

The door swished to the side, and Tom stepped in. His friend had stripped off his vest and was sitting the the middle of a large piece of Dominion hardware. The engineer had remembered more than the Bajoran's earring when leaving the destroyed prison camp; he had managed to grab the camp's shield generator as well. He was occupying himself with trying to deconstruct the technology, and from the state of his hair, Tom could tell he was frustrated. The dark locks stood up in several directions.

"So, what's the trouble?" Ba'ruq asked, not looking up.

Tom looked at him, suddenly at a loss for words. He had arrived here fueled by anger, and now wasn't sure how to start. He began in the middle, instead. "What would you say if I told you to take the Logan, and take that shield to your people?"

Ba'ruq head snapped up, and fierce eyes regarded Paris warily. "I thought you were going to give it to Starfleet. Or is that your way of getting rid of me?" His tone was defensive. "I swear, I thought Dahl was telling the truth."

"No, old friend, it's my way of apologizing and trying to help correct my mistake."

"Paris, what are you talking about?"

Tom sighed, and the sense of emergency that prompted the sprint through the station faded. With repairs in progress, he wasn't sure the Logan could even leave yet.

"Treyn Dahl was probably from Starfleet Intelligence." 

"What?!"

"Now Starfleet knows that you exist." Paris continued as realization spread over Ba'ruq's face, "He lied to you about what I would do. Sure, I was ready to die, but I am glad to live. If he'd repaired me right away, I would still have medical problems, but they wouldn't be so severe. And, dammit, I would have stayed put if he'd done it. I wouldn't have gone off to try and get killed just because I'd finally offed a Changeling." Tom sat down on the other side of the pile of Dominion technology. "He lied to you when he said I would do that, but you did what you thought was right. Thank you for saving me."

Ba'ruq accepted the gratitude with an incline of his head. "So what did that son of a howling bitch do to you?"

Tom swallowed. "Along with the muscle simulators, he embedded data chips to be retrieved by Starfleet. That's why he insisted on DS9; their chief doctor has a history with Intelligence."

"How do you know this?" Ba'ruq busied himself with his work while he listened.

"Seven of Nine. She told me she was going to regenerate, but instead she broke into the station's computer. Something about the medical tricorder data didn't seem right to her, and when Bashir was removing the implants in the Infirmary this morning, some of them seemed to disappear." The Klingon shot him a questioning look. "He used local, low power transporters to remove them from my muscles. Most of them re-materialized on a tray next to the biobed, but a few didn't appear. I don't know whether anyone but Seven or a Vulcan would have noticed that the number of transports and the number of implants didn't add up.

"Anyway, when she got into the medical systems she saw how he'd deleted a Starfleet signature before giving my original scan data to her."

"That doctor was involved? I will kill him."

"No." Tom shook his head in negation. "Seven thinks Bashir deleted the data in a way that she'd notice. He's too smart to make a mistake. He must have wanted us to figure out about the data chips."

Ba'ruq put his instruments down and stared levelly at Paris. "Data chips. He used you to carry data chips? How can you speak so calmly about how Dahl used you?"

Tom returned the look and answered, "Because I'm more worried about you. I don't know if Starfleet will tell the Klingon High Council about you, but if they find out where your colony is hidden, won't they come finish what they started?"

"Likely so." The Klingon rose and began to straighten his work area.

"How soon can you leave?" Tom moved to his feet also.

"I'll have to see what those thumb-fingered Bajorans have fouled up this time, but I could probably go tomorrow morning."

Tom knew he was covering emotions with insult. The Bajorans had done good work. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Not your fault. I knew what risk of exposure I was taking by joining the Runners. Damn. I liked him, trusted him." The dark eyes wouldn't meet Tom's now.

"Me, too. We were both misled." Tom agreed. "Ba'ruq," he began. 

"Shut up, Paris." He stood a moment, and then turned and walked swiftly up to Tom, grabbing him by the top of the vest and pulling him so that their foreheads touched. "Don't die," he growled. "It will never be a good day for _you_ to die." He let Tom go as abruptly as he'd grabbed him, and went back to the pile on the floor. He regarded the shield components, listening to hear when Paris opened the door. 

Before it could slide shut behind him, Tom heard, "Thank you, Paris. This will help protect us if we are found."

Tom paused in the open doorway and said over his shoulder. "It was the least I could do. Right now, Starfleet owes me. You took it. You deserve it." Then, "Ba'ruq?"

"Yes?"

"I hope we will meet again. I will miss you."

The Klingon grunted in acknowledgement, and Tom stepped forward to let the door close.

*--*

As he made his way around the docking ring to Wolf Raider, Tom was still debating what to tell Chakotay, whether to tell him any of what Seven had found out. What he hadn't told Ba'ruq was that Bashir could have repaired all the damage, that the remainder he'd left was a ruse to get him, Tom, to bring Borg technology to Starfleet Medical.

They wanted his implants because they were simple compared to trying to deconstruct an entire Borg. Limited function and known programming would make it easier for them to understand how nanoprobes communicated, how the small machines self-replicated. Bashir had been told to let Tom and Seven go forward with the implants so that Starfleet could take what Seven had denied them.

Bashir had quietly made sure they knew that.

Now Tom could see Seven of Nine waiting outside the airlock to Wolf Raider in her 'drone awaiting instructions' pose. No telling what was really going on in her head. When he approached she turned in his direction. 

"Is Ba'ruq all right?"

Tom nodded. "He'll leave as soon as he can."

"And you?" There was genuine concern in the question.

"Angry." Tom sighed. "I haven't decided whether to tell him."

They both knew who 'him' meant. 

"I have... an idea."

Tom looked past her blond head. "I'm listening."

Her eyes moved deliberately up and down the corridor. "Not here."

He nodded, understanding her hint that discretion was advised. "Special exercise session tomorrow morning? Your program?"

"That would be a good option." 

He turned to go into the airlock, but Seven put her hand on his arm. "Tom?"

Tom's brow furrowed briefly in annoyance. "What?"

"Tell Chakotay you will go to Starfleet Medical as Bashir suggested."

Tom sighed and leaned against the wall. "You know I don't want to go there. You said these implants will last my lifetime, so even if my own nerves don't regenerate, who cares?" He looked over at her. "Besides, I thought you didn't want them to have your technology."

"And they will not get it." Seven turned to stand in front of him, holding his eyes with her own. "I need you to come to Earth. It is important to my idea."

Tom tugged absently at his earring, dropping his eyes. "All right, all right."

"Please be discreet. If you tell him" -- he supplied the words she didn't say: what Dahl did, what Starfleet is trying to do -- "he will try to dissuade you from going to San Francisco. I suggest we keep this information private."

"All right," Tom repeated, rubbing his chin tiredly. "Shall we?"

She bent forward, and preceded him into the airlock. 

"I have an appointment with Commander Kim," Seven told the security guard at the entrance to the ship. "And Mr. Paris is expected by Captain Chakotay."


	7. Chapter 7

Tom walked slowly through Wolf Raider's corridors. There were too many reasons for him to be angry at himself and at Starfleet. He had thoughtlessly risked Ba'ruq's personal safety by forcing him to walk through Deep Space Nine, but only with the revelation of a Starfleet spy on the Logan did Tom realize he'd been risking Ba'ruq's people as well. Shame, as always, made him furious.

Fury needed direction.

Trying to harness his thoughts, Tom realized he needed a distraction. He tried to guess what Seven's idea might be, whether it be revenge or some way to turn Starfleet's betrayal to some advantage. It was not her way to be subtle.

No, subtlety was Chakotay's strong suit, or it used to be. He thought he knew Chakotay, but the simple revelation that the solid, constant man had taken to casual sex cracked the long-held image. It felt like betrayal -- not the sex itself, but he could hardly imagine Chakotay of all people following some strange woman home.

He tried imagining Chakotay in bed with a woman, and was amazed at how natural it seemed. The very ease of the image irritated him, and his rising fury found its target -- a target wearing a Starfleet uniform.

Anger at how he had been used threatened to overwhelm him again and he squelched it by thinking of taking it out on a piece of Starfleet ass. Oh yeah, Chakotay was in trouble. Tom had feeling back in his groin, and he meant to enjoy it. For the last few steps, he was grateful for the drape of the Klingon vest, hiding his growing arousal.

Tom paused when his slow pace finally brought him to the captain's cabin door. He imagined himself ripping the red command uniform off Chakotay's body, bending that body over and giving back to Starfleet the screwing they'd given him. But he couldn't raise his hand to signal. This was ridiculous, standing in the doorway trying to tighten down his control. Besides, he had as much right to give Chakotay grief about sex as he'd had a right to comment on the bourbon the night before. But what bothered him was that wasn't like the Chakotay he remembered, to have sex for the sake of sex.

_Just go fuck him_ , a voice seemed to answer. _Remind him of why he wants you_ and _screw some Starfleet ass_."

Tom drew a deep breath and signaled the door.

It opened to reveal Chakotay dressed in soft greens and browns. The civilian clothing cut through part of Tom's anger, and the smile of welcome daunted it further. 

"I was wondering how long you were going to stand out there," Chakotay said, and Tom could swear his dark eyes were shining. "You coming in?"

Tom stepped across the threshold silently, the grin under the tattoo reminding him of the second mystery -- the return of the crazy, trickster Chakotay. He hesitated for a moment, anger warring with curiosity as he looked into Chakotay's open face. The two emotions reached a truce, and without a word, Tom turned toward the bedroom. He paused only to see whether Chakotay followed. In the room Tom finally spoke, but only to call for low illumination. He began to pull off his clothes, tossing the vest and earring aside before sitting down to remove his boots.

*

Chakotay watched the process from the door to the bedroom, the broad smile of greeting now tempered. He was pleased to see Tom's legs working again, and he let himself admire the body as it was revealed. Smooth skin covered muscles that suggested themselves as they flexed beneath the surface. Tom's was not a strength that announced itself, and it ran the deeper for its quietness.

It was with rapt attention that Chakotay watched, not remembering what once was, not thinking about would would be next. Only the bands of the Borg implants below Tom's knees threatened to cut loose his deliberately halted train of thought.

This man.

This moment.

Tom walked toward him, grabbed his chin roughly and turned his head to expose his neck and ear. Chakotay felt the rasp of Tom's tongue across his jaw, felt it trace up to his ear, felt teeth nip the lobe. In his ear huskily came the word, "Strip."

Still without thought, he complied. Whatever Tom needed, Chakotay would give. Tom stood close, locking their gazes, their breath mingled as Chakotay dropped his loose clothing. He could hear, could feel Tom's breathing quicken, but something was different. This was not the sound of Tom's desire. Arousal, yes, but not desire. When the last item was dropped to the floor, Tom stepped aside and with one hand gripping tightly, propelled him toward the bed. It was not the gesture of a lover, but the moves of an enemy, a captor. Chakotay didn't try to comprehend, but allowed this to happen, allowed Tom to push him to the bed. 

"Heels to the ceiling, Chak."

Although he moved to obey, the harsh nickname and crude command threatened to shake Chakotay's composure. He clung more tightly now to the message of last night's Vision, his first in over a year. He was still to re-learn an old lesson. 

He simply let it happen, let Tom take him, let himself relax into it, wondering whether Tom needed to prove to himself that he was completely recovered. After many minutes of silence broken only by ragged breathing, Tom stopped and looked looked down at him and said, "Can a woman make you feel like that?"

They were both on the edge. Tom had not been gentle, but he had been thorough. Chakotay nearly laughed, realizing his guess at the source of Tom's mood had been wrong. Harry must have mentioned that he was not the only one to take comfort where it was offered, and Tom was angry to know that there were women in Chakotay's life. "Women are nice," he said, as if admitting a point. "You know that. There's nothing like the feel of a breast in your hand." 

Chakotay paused, sensing that this was not the reaction Tom expected. He pushed it further, reaching up to catch his fingers on the low growth of beard. "They're smooth, and they're soft, and they taste -- " He broke off with a dark chuckle. "There is nothing in the universe as sweet as the taste of a woman when she's coming."

Tom's eyes had closed during this recitation, his face flushed with strain. Chakotay answered the original question. "No, they don't make me feel like this. No one else does, Tom." He laughed, quietly and deeply, and asked, "Do you wish it was a woman under you right now?"

Tom smiled, but he didn't open his eyes. "No," he answered, "I'm pretending your women are watching us, seeing how much you seem to like having a man."

Chakotay laughed. "Love it. Love you." He pulled Tom down, lifting his own head up for a lingering kiss. 

*

Dressed in nothing more than loose trousers, Tom's in dark tan and Chakotay's a deep brown, they sat down to eat. The air was full of a happy confusion, an amusement at themselves. Tom let himself concentrate on the trickster Chakotay who had taken what Tom intended as a punishment fuck and turned it into love making. Tom's anger, at Chakotay at least, had dissipated in what was finally their first shared pleasure in nearly a year.

"Chakotay?" Tom asked, pausing between bites.

"Mmm?" Chakotay's mouth was full.

"You got any more surprises for me?"

Chakotay swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"You're different from how you used to be."

"How's that?"

Tom put down his fork and began to count off his thoughts on his fingers. "First, you couldn't handle what happened to me." He paused for Chakotay to object or apologize, but the man kept on eating. "Second, you very publicly do some heart ritual. Third, you nearly cried in public. Fourth you drink alcohol, and fifth," Tom paused and took a breath. "You, Mr. 'I need to be in love to make love', has casual sex."

Chakotay reached for his glass of water, his eyes still amused. "You finished?"

"That's about it."

"Hmm." He took a sip, and went back to eating.

Tom stared at him. "'Hmmm'?" he asked incredulously. "Just 'Hmmm'?"

Chakotay grinned without looking up, and it pushed Tom towards a rant.

"C'mon, Chakotay. If I'd been injured back on Voyager you'd have been all 'noble martyr'. You were very private about your feelings and your personal rituals." Tom's voice rose in volume. "You hardly touched even synthehol, and as for women, I can count on one hand -- "

Chakotay held up a hand to stop the tirade. His face was a mask of patience with the eyes of a trickster. "Tom, things do change."

"Not you."

"Yes, me." A smiled tugged again at the corners of the full lips.

Tom was exasperated, exhausted from all the day's revelations. He'd had it with the trickster mystery. "What's so damn funny with you today?"

Chakotay took a last bite of food, and pushed his empty plate aside. "You eat," he indicated the barely touched dish of beans and pasta in front of Tom, "and I'll talk." Tom picked up his fork and Chakotay leaned back, folding his arms over his bare stomach.

"Once, in a time and in a place, there were creatures confined to a cage. There were many different animals: Birds of the air that could not fly in the cage, burrowing animals with nowhere to dig in the cage, grazing animals with nowhere to run in the cage, and sea creatures with no water to swim in the cage.

"The cage sustained them all, and in time they put aside their true natures and became simply creatures of the cage. In time they almost forgot what they each once had been, and some, in some ways, made themselves as they would like to be.

"In time, the creatures began to choose mates, and they chose each other heedless of the kind of animal that they had been outside the cage.

"This was how the wolf came to be mated with the hawk."

Chakotay paused and looked across the table. Tom met his eyes briefly, and returned to his food. He was listening, but he wasn't yet sure of the point.

"Neither one really knew the other. The wolf had made himself into something more like a gentle bear -- fierce when necessary, but wise and slow to anger. The hawk had made himself into a hunting hound -- still quick and able, but loyal and bent to serve. They had known each other outside the cage as hawk and wolf, but in time they forgot.

"As the gentle bear and the loyal hound, the two creatures loved, each thinking they knew the other, and each content to love what they thought they knew.

"The day the cage opened, everything changed. The hawk threw off the skin of the hound and took again to the air. The wolf, though, kept the skin of the bear, believing it to be his own.

"When they met, the wolf would marvel at the hawk, and search him for traces of the hound he had loved. The hawk, in his turn, saw only the bear skin, and was satisfied. The wolf grew to love the hawk for what he was, but the hawk had never seen past the skin of the bear, and did not know the wolf. The wolf had long looked out of the eyes of the bear, and did not know himself. In time, the bear skin grew mangy, began to rot, and without noticing, the wolf was finally a wolf once more.

"But the hawk had never seen past the skin of the bear," Chakotay repeated, "and he did not know the wolf."

A short silence followed, and finally Tom asked, "Is that the end?"

"No." Chakotay sat up and leaned toward him. "It's only the beginning."

Tom looked at him and shook his head. "How long you been rehearsing that?"

"I just made it up." Chakotay let himself grin. "If I'd rehearsed it, I'd have a better tag line."

Tome rolled his yes. "Yeah. I think the 'just the beginning' bit has been done before." He stood up to clear the table. "So, all that doesn't explain the return of the trickster."

Chakotay grinned at the nickname as he rose to help, answering only, "I used the Akoonah last night, while you were sleeping, for the first time in over a year."

"A _year_?" Tom asked, surprised.

"Yep."

"Damn."

"'Damn' is right." Chakotay stepped over to the replicator. "Drink?"

"Whatever you're having. I'm curious to see what synthahol does with these new implants." Tom veered the subject. "Remember the first time Seven got drunk?"

Chakotay laughed, handing Tom his glass. "Yep. She subjected the Doctor to the Borg version of _I love ya', little fucker_." He slurred out the last, then continued, "Speaking of Borg and implants, yours seem to be working."

"Like I was born with them," Tom said, raising his glass in salute before sitting on the couch.

Answering the gesture, Chakotay asked, "So what was that bit about you not being so hurt? Didn't I hear that doctor say something about how a field medic should have been able to take care of it? I asked Ba'ruq about it when we were walking back to the Logan, and all he knew was that the medic convinced him you were trying to die, and that he shouldn't do much more for you than the brace."

Tom took a quick sip, feeling the color rise as anger returned. Another sip gave him time to think as Chakotay sat down on the other end of the couch. "Well," he said finally, "I guess that medic wasn't as good as he could have been. Runners don't get Starfleet training in counseling, y'know."

Chakotay conceded the point with a nod, and Tom watched him to see whether he assumed that Dahl's misjudgement was the source of Tom's visible anger. It seemed to work as a deflection. Chakotay ran his hand through the solid line of silver hair that ran from above his right eye to his temple, and asked, "So now what?"

Tom led them over to the couch, composing himself to lie by telling half the truth. "Bashir says that Starfleet Medical can fix the legs up good as new, no implants. I guess I'm heading for San Francisco."

"That doesn't seem right," Chakotay said as they sat down. "Bashir's one of the best. Sisko tells me that even out here he's managed to teach Starfleet Medical a thing or two." He regarded his drink, his brow furrowing under the tattoo. "Curious as to why they'd be so eager to treat a civilian, especially a Runner. You know you're not very popular with the brass right now?"

Tom knew; Seven had told him. He merely raised his eyebrows, saying blandly, "Do tell?"

"Runner activities are a Dominion negotiating point." Chakotay answered. "They need to stop before any talks can move forward."

Tom thought to himself that the Dominion's Founders really wanted his head on a platter for killing one of them. He sighed as a cover and said, "I see." He made a quick mental calculation. He wanted to tell Chakotay what was really going on, but to do so might jepordize Seven's plan, whatever that would turn out to be, and she had expressly asked him not to tell Chakotay. Tom gambled that he could find a way to at least plant the idea that Starfleet might not be playing straight. "So do you think Dahl could have messed me up on purpose and lied to Ba'ruq about why?"

Chakotay looked at him. Tom wore the expression he labeled 'ultimate poker face'. "You know something I don't?"

"Dahl's gone missing," Tom said.

"By your own account, you were badly hurt," Chakotay answered carefully. "That brace was a pretty drastic alternative if it wasn't really necessary. Do you think he saddled you with that on purpose?"

Tom knew Dahl had done it on purpose, but he said, "The thought had crossed my mind. If our positions had been reversed, I probably could have handled that kind of injury. Dahl told Ba'ruq he wasn't sure he could do it, and that if he healed me he thought I'd just go off on some suicide mission again. He was lying. He had to be lying, because I wasn't thinking that way. Maybe he wasn't what he seemed. Hell, maybe he worked for Starfleet Intelligence and was supposed to put me out of action." Too close to the truth? 

The conversation seemed to bother Chakotay. "That doesn't sound like Starfleet, Tom."

"Maybe not." Enough of this; the first seed of doubt was planted. "Well, maybe Starfleet's willing to fix my legs on Earth so that they can prove to the Dominion that I'm no longer on the front lines out-Running them."

Chakotay smiled. "Now that does sound like a Starfleet tactic." He set his drink aside. "Speaking of your legs, I haven't really had a chance to look at the implants."

Tom took the opportunity to drop the conversation. "That all you want to look at?" he drawled.

"No," came a simple answer.

"Twice in one night? You're not as old as you look."

"Come here and say that."

*--*

They drowsed, nearly asleep until the comm system woke them. "Bridge to Captain."

Chakotay sighed heavily, and Tom felt him roll away. "Go ahead."

"Captain, incoming communication from Starfleet Command. Admiral Nachayev."

"Put it through to my desk here," he answered, grabbing a robe.

Tom buried his head under a pillow, muttering, "Fucking Starfleet. Remind me not to date their captains."

A few minutes later he felt the covers pulled off him and a sudden swat on his buttocks. He peered out from under the pillow to see Chakotay looking down at him. The face was not that of the Crazy Indian; Tom knew he was looking at the wolf. "You have orders?" he asked, knowing the answer.

The tattooed head dipped once before turning away. Tom got up and went into the bathroom. By the time he came out, Chakotay was already in uniform, asking the computer to locate Harry Kim. Tom dressed as he listened.

"Commander Kim is not on board Wolf Raider," the computer answered.

"Patch into the station's comm system, and try again."

"Commander Kim is on Deep Space Nine."

"Chakotay to Kim."

There was a pause before a slightly breathless voice answered, "Kim here."

"We have our orders, Harry."

"How soon?"

"Just over two hours. Oh-two-hundred," the captain answered. "Are you still with Seven?"

A pause before, "Um, yeah."

"Well, finish your fascinating engineering discussion and then get back here."

"Understood." There was a chuckle in the voice. Tom had the feeling they'd had similar conversations before, over women Tom didn't know. "Kim out."

"Well, I'll be damned," Tom said. "I finally have a confirmed hit."

Chakotay looked at him questioningly, and Tom answered, "Seven. Sex."

"Oh." Chakotay seemed uninterested, and a bit distracted. Tom walked over and took his face in his hands, forcing his attention.

"When are you going to leave this outfit and fly off with me?" His voice was light.

Chakotay looked at him soberly. "Wolves are pack animals, Tom. I run with my pack."

"There are lone wolves," Tom reminded him.

"But wolves don't fly."

"Never?" 

"Not today."

Tom leaned in and they kissed gently, once, twice. He moved his hands up into Chakotay's hair, traced his face, played over him like a console. Their eyes remained locked. Finally Chakotay took Tom's hands and pulled them down. "I'll miss you."

"You always do."

"Will you contact me through Starfleet when you know about your legs?"

"I'm a lousy correspondent, Chakotay." Tom let go and stepped back. "You've got a lot to do before you go."

Chakotay nodded in acknowledgement. "Until next time, whenever that is."

"Whenever that is," Tom whispered agreement.

*

Chakotay turned away before Tom left, looking out at the stars past one of the station girders that partly blocked his view port. He heard the door open and close, but a movement next to him told him that Tom was still in the room. Warm hands took him by the hips, and breath in his ear whispered in Tom's best seductive voice a continuation of Chakotay's list of the pleasures of women and extended it in graphic detail. He ended by describing an act Chakotay found improbable, but appealing. 

Chakotay felt lips grazed his neck and the body behind him move away. "'Til next time."

This time with the noise of the door Tom was truly gone.

The hawk had flown, and the wolf had work to do.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom smiled at the computer screen and said, "See if you can get someone to try my little suggestion. And remember, even hawks build nests."

He leaned back. "End recording. Computer, transmit to Captain Chakotay, Wolf Raider." Tom wondered what the Starfleet censors would make of the last bit. Maybe it would cause them to watch Chakotay more carefully, and maybe a little pressure would squeeze the man out of Starfleet.

"Tom," he said to the air, "you are one conniving bastard." He turned away from the computer console in the tiny but thankfully private room he'd been assigned. Troop transports were not known for luxury, but at least he had space to be alone, which was more than the grunts were afforded.

Grunts. It was a deprecating word for the people who bore the worst of this, or any, war. He'd pulled a few out of Dominion prison camps, and resupplied more than a few caught behind enemy lines. He respected them, though it had been a long time since he felt the same deep loyalty to the ideals they fought for. He pitied them, knowing they fought on in good faith for an institution that Tom knew didn't always deserve that faith. 

It didn't always, he reminded himself, but it usually did. Starfleet and the Federation meant something, stood for high ideals. He knew that it was people who failed, not institutions. Still, he was not going to let it pass that people in the institution had used him.

He was starting to get angry again, and he could not afford it. He needed to keep focus, to learn everything he could before acting, before taking his revenge. Two deep breaths. Compose the face. Smile. He liked Seven's idea of revenge, and in her usual drive for efficiency, it would also free a friend and get the Runners the best medical care available. Stealing Voyager's EMH would give them all three. 

When they parted company on DS 9, she had taken her private flyer and followed Ba'ruq to his colony. There she would help him install the Dominion shield generator and refit the Logan's medical bay with the computer space and hologenerators the Doctor's matrix would need. All they had to do was get a download device into the room where the EMH program was isolated. They hadn't figured out all the details yet.

He stood and stretched. Time for lunch and to see what else was on this sky bucket. He left his quarters and spent a few moments finding his way to the mess hall. It was sparsely populated, but several uniforms of various departments were seated at tables or standing in line for food. Tom joined the line, and the man in the queue ahead of him turned to regard him with curiosity.

Not for the first time Tom mildly regretted the Bajoran earring. It had garnered many such looks, but he answered the gaze evenly. "Good morning."

The tall man, a 'Fleet soldier with a short brush cut and a large build, nodded in response and turned away. Tom didn't pursue conversation. When he reached the head of the line he took one of the pre-set trays, walked over to an empty table, and sat facing the door. He wished he'd thought to bring an entertainment padd. If he ever needed distraction it was now, when he was surrounded by Starfleet uniforms. 

His mind wandered as he ate. He permitted himself a trace of worry about Ba'ruq, and a momentary chagrin that Seven had nearly convinced him that her late evening with Harry was all innocence and engineering. He was nearly through with the meal when a few newcomers pulled out chairs and sat at his table. He looked up in welcome, but was surprised to see that they didn't have trays. The faces were not friendly.

"Can I help you?" Paris fell back on bland civility, feeling old reflexes engage. He'd been through this scene in the Auckland prison, on Voyager, in the bars on Ursula's Moon. It didn't worry him too much, since there was little chance that things could get violent in such a public arena. He could write the script, though. There were three, two men and a woman, and he guessed it would be the smaller of the men who spoke. He was right.

"What's the Runner hee-row doin' on a troop ship? Should we be prettying ourselves up for the newsfeeds?" The man's voice was a scornful drawl.

Tom pushed away his tray and leaned back. "I do what I do, just like you. But there's one of me and a lot of you, and even when you have the harder job, they put the vids on me. I can't help that." He spoke frankly, without trying either to insult or appease. He knew they had a hard job, and understood somewhat why they might respond to him this way. His openness didn't work.

"Doesn't hurt, who your daddy is."

"Was," interjected the woman in mock sympathy. "He lost his daddy this year."

Paris refused to react, though the words cut him deeply. The larger of the two men, the silent one, was the soldier from the food line, and he looked uncomfortable. The other man, smaller only in comparison to his companion, started in again. "You Runners just glide in and run out when it suits you, and everyone says, 'Hoo-ray.' We're on the ground, day in, day out, taking whatever the Dominion throws at us. It's boredom or death, and no in-betweens."

'Boredom or death' sounded like the Delta Quadrant. Tom started to speak, but stopped himself from trying to justify his life to this soldier. The man facing him was starting to warm up to his subject, to work himself into a good display of indignant feeling.

"You're nothing," he sneered. "Y'know what we call you pesky Runners?" He didn't wait for Tom to shake his head. "Butterflies," the man answered. "You flutter in all pretty, and everyone says, 'Ooo!'" He fluttered his hands in a grotesque parody. "But you can't stand up to the real work of a war."

Another voice broke in. "Are you quite through?"

Tom only glanced up far enough to see the pips at the neck of the newcomer standing nearby. "It's all right, Lieutenant. Let them have their say."

The officer answered, "Only if they know what they're talking about."

Recognition coursed through Tom. He knew that voice. Without looking up he said, "Dahl, I can handle this."

"Probably so, but these three probably have no idea what you've done."

"Don't," Tom said sharply, still not looking at the Betazoid.

Dahl ignored him. "Any of you have friends in the 523rd?" The bigger man nodded, and Dahl continued in a voice harder than Tom had ever heard on the Logan, "Go look up the incident on Lynand III, and then come tell me what a 'butterfly' this Runner is." He paused and then said, "Dismissed."

The three soldiers left rapidly, and Treyn Dahl took the chair opposite Paris.

Tom wasn't prepared for this encounter, and he took care not to shift the mask he'd assumed for the soldiers while his mind sifted possibilities. Dahl was probably assuming that the uniform would be a surprise. Tom had to react appropriately, but the anger he had been carrying for days wanted expression at this, it's main target.

Warp equations. They might serve the double purpose of keeping him calm and shielding his thoughts from a telepath. 

Tom broke the silence. "Let me guess: Your name isn't Treyn Dahl, and you're in Starfleet Intelligence."

"Reasonable assumption."

"No wonder you were such a lousy medic." Tom allowed one eyebrow to rise in mock query. "So what do I call you now?"

"Treyn Dahl," came the answer. "It's a good name, and the assignment isn't quite over yet." A slight smile moved the corners of the mouth. "Sorry about the 'lousy medic' part."

"Yeah." Paris stared at him with a contrived expression of bored annoyance. Beneath the mask he was taking in the differences between the Runner he had first met and the uniformed officer he faced now. Some of the changes were subtle, and some were not. Dahl had defined features, and the blond hair that had always hung loose past his shoulders aboard the Logan was now pulled back severely. When they first met he had seemed softer, more feminine maybe, but the figure before him was hard and commanding.

The Dahl of the Logan had been open, relaxed, and he'd had the easy sensuality and deep eyes that seemed innate to natives of BetaZed. Tom had felt his mind touch during the training sessions for the brace, and remembered it as full of humor and compassion. The officer across the table was different, with the bearing of Starfleet training and an air of control. The dark gray eyes seemed more shallow, and only the full lips gave any hint of sensuality. This man seemed like he would never talk of healing the soul as well as the body, as his character on the Logan had done.

"... Tom? Hey, Tom!" The Betazoid's voice intruded on his observations. 

"What?" He let some of the annoyance on his face into his voice. 

"What happened to the brace?" Dahl seemed genuinely curious.

"I upgraded," Paris said dismissively. Ba'ruq said Dahl was the one who suggested contacting Seven of Nine, so he had to know about his new implants. The question told him, though, that Dahl must have have been watching him long before the soldiers sat down. He changed the subject, and asked the one thing he most wanted to know. "Is Ba'ruq in your report, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, but -- " Dahl held up his hand as Tom cursed silently. "But Starfleet already knew about the colony. I don't believe that information has been shared with the Klingon High Council." 

Tom felt relief wash through him, and a sense of guilt easing. He was not responsible for betraying the existence of Ba'ruq's people. He asked his next question. "So what were you doing on the Logan, apart from pretending to be a medic?"

"Runners go places the 'Fleet can't, Tom," came the answer with a note of impatience. "You know that."

The answer was no answer, really, but Tom had not expected better. "Of course," he said blandly, and rose to pick up his tray. He set it down again and placed his palms on the table, leaning close to the face he had once thought was a friend's. He said softly, "Look, whatever the fuck your name is, I didn't need your little intervention with those soldiers." 

Tom stood up and took his tray to the recycler and made to leave. He turned back at the door to see Dahl leaning back with his tight braid hanging down, eyes to the ceiling. He looked unhappy. Tom spared thought to wonder why, and decided that he didn't care. He went back to his quarters.

*---*

Chakotay regarded the screen on his desk, seeing the message waiting from Tom. It bore, in addition to the censor approval codes, an indicator flag from Command. The flag meant that something in the message had caught their eyes, and would require a report. Thanks, Tom.

"Begin playback."

Paris' face filled the screen, earring glittering and eyes bright. "Hello, Chakotay.

"Leave it to me to tell you I'm a lousy correspondent and then prove myself wrong by sending you messages.

"I got yours, by the way. I'm sorry I couldn't get your Bajoran friend Kostin on to the Logan. She'd already left, but I did give him a few contact names.

"Starfleet's sending me to Earth on their own transports. I'm on a troopship for the first part, but I'll transfer to an Intrepid class for the second leg. That'll be weird. Voyager, but not Voyager."

Tom's figure shrugged, then smiled at Chakotay with a glint of wicked meaning. "See if you can get a woman to try my little suggestion." Then the eyes softened, as he finished, "And remember, even hawks build nests."

Chakotay stared at the screen, and he couldn't stop a half-smile at Tom's irrepressible nature. As soon as Tom's face faded it was replaced by a transcript of the message with sections highlighted for explanations. He'd expected the reference to Kostin Bonyer to be flagged, but it wasn't. Only the last two sentences had a request for further information.

"Tom, you bastard," he said. "You did that on purpose." He leaned back and considered, and the thought that rose was a memory of two days ago, when Admiral Nachayev's call pulled him out of bed with Tom. 

He let himself replay the interaction in his mind. After giving him his orders, orders which shouldn't have warranted an admiral's personal attention, she had mentioned Tom. She had asked Chakotay if they'd seen each other on the station, and he said yes.

"Pardon me for asking a personal question," she'd said in her overly polite manner, "but is he with you now?"

Chakotay refused to blush, though aware that it was obvious he was out of uniform. "He's in the other room, and the terminal is hushed. He can't hear anything."

"Oh, Captain, we trust your discretion. I simply wanted to ask you to do me favor." She used the sincere near-wheedle that always made Chakotay wonder how she'd risen so high.

"A favor?" he'd asked carefully.

"Yes, Captain. You see, he's been offered treatment at Starfleet Medical, and we want to make sure he accepts."

Chakotay had smiled, as if in collusion, but the request seemed odd. He used the explanation that Tom had given earlier, fishing. "Proof that he's off the front lines will help negotiations."

"Exactly, Captain." She had permitted herself a gracious expression. "Anything you can do to encourage him to come to Earth would be most helpful."

Chakotay didn't tell her that Tom's decision had apparently been made. Instead he used the opportunity to get more information. "I don't think it will be easy, sir. He has no love for Starfleet Headquarters."

"We know, but if you think it will help, please tell him that Admiral Janeway would be his personal liaison."

They had ended the transmission after that. He hadn't told Paris about Nachayev's request, or about Janeway's assignment. That a senior admiral had brought it up, that a junior admiral was assigned as liaison -- something was too important to Starfleet, and Chakotay wasn't sure what it was. The negotiation point was a reasonable explanation, perhaps. 

Perhaps.

Chakotay wondered what Tom was up to this time. He rubbed his eyes, then keyed the terminal to deliver his report.

Next to "See if you can get someone to try my little suggestion," Chakotay entered: This sentence refers to a specific sexual practice, and is of the nature of a private joke. Further details can be provided if necessary.

He hoped they asked for further details, and he bet himself that Nachayev would blush if he told her.

Next to "Remember, even hawks build nests," he wrote: The sentence refers to an old Indian legend. ("About two days old," he laughed to himself.) I believe Mr. Paris is referring to a possibility that he may cease his activities as a Runner.'

_Give them what they want to hear_ , he punctuated mentally, then caught himself. Since when was Starfleet _them_?

Since Tom planted a seed of doubt, came the answer, and since Nachayev watered that seed. And the soil was Maquis.

He contemplated his report for a moment, and he didn't like the thoughts that came to him -- unsorted, unappealing, and more than a little disconcerting. With a sigh he keyed the terminal to deliver his amendments to Command.

Chakotay checked the time. He was technically not on shift -- not that captains were ever off duty -- and the rendezvous was over 12 hours away. He needed time away, time to think. He needed something, and when he relaxed himself to look inside and find what it was he needed, the answer was unequivocal. He stepped out of his ready room on to the bridge.

Harry stood up out of the command chair, but Chakotay didn't take his place. He stepped close enough to his First Officer to speak quietly. "Harry, I'll be unavailable for a while."

Kim looked at him questioningly, and Chakotay answered carefully, "I need a little... specific guidance."

After a moment's confusion, Chakotay saw understanding in Harry's eyes. "I'll see that you're not disturbed, sir."

"As much as is possible."

In his quarters Chakotay brought out his medicine bundle, a packet of tobacco as an offering to the spirits, and the Akoonah. He lay them on the floor of his bedroom, every movement feeling hesitant from disuse, and as he remembered the forms he thought about his last impromptu vision.

One of the first lessons his people taught their children was to listen. They would be sent to sit alone in the wilds, or anywhere, and told to open up to the sounds. It served both a practical and a spiritual purpose. In a very material sense, survival in the wild meant knowing your surroundings, knowing the normal sounds of insects and birds, so that any change would be noticed. For the heart, though, it demonstrated that the world is busy, that life moves in its own ways, "Despite," as his father used to say, "your big boots crashing around."

Three nights ago the Akoonah had taught him that lesson again, but this time the wilds had been the land that was himself. His guide had appeared as the familiar green and yellow snake, and silently crawled inside him, twining herself loosely three times around his spinal cord, as if nesting in the unfulfilled desire for Tom. The paths of discovery had risen from his groin through his spine and down into his limbs. If the view of himself in the shop window on DS9 had surprised him, listening to his body in Vision from the Akoonah astonished him. The depth of his disconnection from his inner self was disturbing. 

The path leading to his head, his mind, showed him thought appearing like bright arrows of linearity, not connected to the body. Chakotay realized the lines of his thought and the paths of his body should be an interconnected web, that the Akoonah was telling him he had forgotten how to see the whole. By constantly planning, constantly projecting, he had forgotten to simply be who he was, where he was, body and mind linked as one.

Lastly, though, he saw his heart, and the Vision showed him that he had lost it long before ripping it out to give to Tom. It had been a loss of slow attrition. The giving had allowed him to regain his core. He felt it beat strong, beats echoed faintly from somewhere outside himself.

Chakotay remembered these insights, and looked down at his preparations. "Listen to yourself. Listen to your body," the Vision had said.

Right now his body was telling him his uniform itched.

He took it off piece by piece, laying it on the bed. There was ceremonial garb in his closet, but he chose to go without. He seated himself nude before his bundle, before his offering, before the 'hallucinogenic device'. The last time he used the Akoonah he had switched it on; tonight he was going to enter into it.

He spent several moments unrolling the bundle, looking at each item it contained. His personal fetishes included a few objects from Earth, some from Dorvan V, more from the Delta quadrant. None had been added in the years since Voyager's return. 

When they were all laid out, each one treasured and remembered, he reached his fingers forward.

It wasn't immediate, but gradually a sense of his Vision's surroundings faded in. The constant hum of the ship's engines was replaced by the un-silent quiet of a woodland. It was the familiar starting place for so many of his inward journeys. He was still nude in his vision, standing in a clearing under slanting rays of the afternoon sun.

He looked around and saw his guide, green and yellow, waiting at the head of one of several trails leading out. She had chosen one at right angles to the sun, heading South, he guessed. He walked forward, thinking greetings toward her, and received back a distinct answer: "Thought you'd forgotten about me." It addressed him by his secret names, the ones not even his father knew, and bade him follow.

The path led out to a wider clearing, nearly big enough to be called a meadow. Many paces away, Chakotay could see a strange tableau. As they came closer he could make out a huge, flat stone, about the height of a table, with a hooded figure bustling around it as if it were a workbench. Smoke rose from a brazier set up on a corner of the rock, and spread on the table was a body, face down and arms outstretched. The surface of the stone was large enough to support the entire length.

A pot balanced over the brazier's coals, and Chakotay's nose caught a whiff of parrafin. A pile of feathers was neatly placed near the rock. He looked over toward his spirit guide, but she had gone. He was supposed to be here. But what was this?

He watched, and in a few moments he understood what was happening. The hooded figure was using wax to attach layers of feathers to the arms and shoulders of the man laid out on the rock. Chakotay was ignored as he moved to get a closer look, and saw that one side was nearly finished. With each application of hot wax and feather, the subject of this strange decoration flinched slightly. The other arm and torso of the man on the stone was bare of feathers, yet Chakotay could see the pitted scars where the technique had been used before. But who was this?

He looked carefully at the torso, at the smooth buttocks with their few sparse hairs that thickened to cover the legs with reddish curls. This, with the dark blond hair in a ponytail, could only be Tom. Chakotay walked around the rock to the head, and squatted down so that he could see the face. It was Tom's face, disfigured momentarily by a grimace of pain.

"What is this?" Chakotay asked, wondering whether he would be heard.

"Just getting my wings." The reply was choked, with a gasp as another feather was applied.

"These won't last, Tom. They'll melt or fall off, and you'll have to do this all over again."

A rueful chuckle answered him. "I know, but when I'm up there, it's worth it." 

One side finished, Tom moved the densely feathered arm experimentally. "I can't wait until it's all done." He seemed relaxed during the break that came as the hooded figure moved his equipment and the feathers to the other side of the stone table. "You should try it, Chakotay."

At the suggestion, Chakotay flicked his eyes back over the scars of the exposed shoulder. They ran regular and deep, the cicatrix continuing down the entire back of the outspread arm. The sight sickened him.

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

Tom's eyes looked at him unwaveringly. "Everything has a price, Chakotay. I've chosen mine. I have to fly."

Before he could answer the vision began to fade, and the hum of engines and a klaxon of red alert took over his senses. The computer had engaged its override.

Harry's voice was urgent over the comm link. "Captain, we've got trouble."

He was dressed and out the door in ninety-seven seconds.


	9. Chapter 9

Tom woke slowly. He was hungry, and the calls of his stomach roused him from sleep.

"All right," he said out loud, and rose to dress. There were only a few changes of clothes in his bag, and he chose an outfit for working out. He'd eat first, then go find a gym. The ship had to have a gym on board. His only footwear, the new boots, weren't good for exercising, but he could probably work out barefoot.

Two days on a troopship had done nothing for his mood. Since the encounter with the soldiers, and with Dahl, he had kept to his cabin, hitting the mess at odd hours and avoiding contact. He realized that if he couldn't have interaction, he at least needed action, and isometrics in the cabin were getting boring. His legs needed something more to get back into shape. Besides, he needed to be around other people, even if they didn't talk to him, just to keep himself from stewing in his own resentments.

It was late for breakfast, early for lunch. In the mess hall he found something to drink and something in a packaged labeled "bakta fruit". He ate quickly, reflecting that life in the Delta Quadrant had at least prepared him for standard soldier's food. The packaged fruit was worthy of Neelix. Poor Neelix. Dead Neelix.

Tom shook off the thoughts and went in search of the gym. A query to the computer interface in the corridor gave him deck and location. Modular Starfleet design meant he had no trouble finding it.

There were a few people inside, perhaps fifteen. He ignored them, took off his boots, and moved toward an open area to start his warm up -- a combination of yoga and Klingon martial arts he had learned from B'Elanna. He put his mind on hold, subsuming himself gladly in the feel of his body. He moved through the muscle groups, using machines and free weights, until finally he lay on his back in a matted area, finishing his cool-down stretches. He stretched full length, arms and legs reaching toward the opposite walls. It felt good, but he was not allowed to luxuriate for long.

"Hello, Tom."

Tom didn't even open his eyes. It was Dahl. "Hello, whatever the fuck your name is." He could hear the man sigh in response, and a rustle of fabric tracked Dahl's move from standing to sitting on the floor. Tom mentally called up warp equations to block his thoughts, and asked, "What do you want?"

"You don't seem too happy to see the man who saved your life."

When he reached the fifth derivative of the Chochrane series, Tom opened his eyes. The person sitting next to him was the Dahl of the Logan, not the officer in uniform from the mess hall. "Shit," was Tom's verbal response, both to himself and to Dahl. "Ba'ruq saved my life, and frankly, a real medic wouldn't have had to saddle me with that brace."

Tom sat up, facing away from Dahl, and continued, "I've seen my original medical scans, Dahl, or whatever your name is. If it had been me treating you, I'd have had you walking on your own in a week." He didn't bring up the lie Dahl had told Ba'ruq.

"I never said I was a good medic, Paris."

"Stow it," Tom said dismissively. "Starfleet isn't that sloppy."

There was a long pause before Dahl acknowledged, "No. No, they're not."

Tom permitted himself a mock smile at the admission, glancing over. "So should I call you _Dr. What ever your name is_?"

Dahl nodded, with an apparently rueful flick of his eyebrows. "I specialized in psychiatry."

"Is that true?" Tom asked pointedly, but he looked down and away, swallowing anger, and he heard rather than saw the shrugged response.

"What does it matter?" It was a soft voice, the remembered voice. "Right now I could tell you that space is filled with stars, and I doubt you'd believe me."

"You sure as hell have that right." Psychiatry made sense, though, given the way Dahl had sounded like a Starfleet counselor back on the Logan. Tom finally twisted enough to face Dahl. "Psychiatry?"

The man raised his eyebrows and in rueful self-mockery said, "I was never very good with my hands."

Tom laughed, but it mostly expressed annoyed disbelief. The facial expression, the sense of humor, they were typical of the man he had instantly liked on the Logan. In the last few days, though, Tom had revised his opinion downwards, characterizing the Betazoid as an untrustworthy bastard, an opinion confirmed yesterday by the image of the Runner transformed by a Starfleet uniform. But the man in front of him was entirely at odds with the unscrupulous acts to which Tom had been a victim. Shaking his head, Tom asked again, "What do you want?"

"Right now?" Dahl shrugged and pushed a lock of hair out of his face in a gesture Tom had once found appealing. "I'd like a sparring partner."

"Gym's full of 'em." Tom gestured toward the other people exercising.

"Ah." Dahl's charcoal eyes gleamed at him with a sudden feral edge. "None of them are as highly motivated to try and get a piece of me."

Tom looked, and saw neither the officer nor the Runner. This, finally, was the man who implanted data chips disguised as medical devices, the man who left a crippling injury unhealed. Paris said the first thing that came to his lips. "You fucking bastard."

Dahl rose to his feet, wearing a smile Tom did not like. "Damn straight," he said, extending his hand to help Tom up. "You game?"

"Damn straight," Tom answered, and took the hand. Instead of rising with it, he snaked out his foot catch Dahl behind the knees, using the hand to pull him off balance. 

From there the fight began. They obeyed the rules of sparring, but the punches were only barely held back. Tom had height, reach, and mass on his opponent, but Dahl was fresh and in better shape, and hand-to-hand had never been Tom's strength. For a few minutes it seemed they were evenly matched, and their area of the mat drew a few onlookers. It wasn't long before Tom's legs betrayed him, tired from their workout and no longer as strong as his mind expected them to be. Dahl flipped Tom over his shoulder, and Tom landed resoundingly on the mat.

It took him several moments to catch his breath, and when he opened his eyes he was gratified that his opponent seemed winded as well. Dahl raised his eyebrows in question, and Tom conceded defeat with a nod. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Sure," Dahl answered, pushing back damp locks of hair. He began to make the offer of help up, then seemed to think the better of it. "I look forward to dropping you again," he said, and walked out of Tom's field of view.

Tom lay on his back a few moments more, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of Dahl's actions. A new figure stepped close to his head, and Tom found himself looking up at the large man from the mess hall. "Hello."

The man answered by nodding, then stepped around and offered his hand to pull Tom to his feet.

"Thanks." The man only nodded again, and Tom was about to decide he was mute, but he spoke slowly in a deep voice.

"About Lynand III."

Tom sighed and smiled, looking down. He prepared himself to hear the _I was wrong about you_ speech, but it didn't come. The man only said, "Thank you."

Tom looked up and saw something genuine and restrained, and he gave the man an honest answer. "I'd do it again, but I hope to hell I never have to."

The soldier nodded, and said, "That guy."

"Yeah?" Tom knew he meant the one who had spoken in the mess hall.

"I decked him."

"Well then," was all Tom could manage. He held out his hand, saying, "You have me at a disadvantage."

The man took it in a bone-crushing grip. "They call me Mack."

"'Built like a Mack truck.'" The 20th century reference was out before Tom caught himself. It was too fitting, but he expected to be asked, "What is a truck?" Instead he saw the man smile.

"Yeah. No one ever gets that."

"It's a little obscure," Tom admitted, "but the 20th century's always been my favorite."

"Me too."

Tom looked up at him. "Really? How come?"

Mack's smile broadened, and he said the one word that would cement their friendship: "Cars."

*--*

It was 36 hours before Chakotay walked into his quarters again. The laid out fetishes from his medicine bundle were scattered over the floor, and only at the sight of them did he even vaguely remember his Vision.

The past day and a half had been rough. Ten hours from rendezvous they'd been surprised by three Dominion ships and a Cardassian cruiser. Wolf Raider had played fox to their hounds until finally leading the hounds into the snare of the waiting fleet. The ship had taken damage in the chase, taken casualties. Right now Harry was on a biobed, fighting not to be added to the list of the war's dead.

Most of the repairs could be managed in flight, and Wolf Raider was tucked in the middle of the pack for safety while the work was done. Dispatching repair teams, organizing by priority -- these were Harry's jobs. Chakotay could cede the engine work to Chief Engineer Banta, but the structural damage he had managed himself.

Only now could he rest, get the shower he so badly needed, but it would have to wait a few moments more. He picked up the stones, feathers, and other bits of personal history from where the jarring of the ship had landed them. Once they were re-tied into his medicine bundle he looked around for the Akoonah. It was under the bed. While on his hands and knees he noticed the wisps of tobacco leaf scattered wildly across the carpet. He decided to leave it to the automatic cleaners.

He indulged in a brief water shower and stepped back out into his cabin. He was not prepared to see the yellow and green coil with its cool eyes regarding him.

A Vision without the Akoonah was rare and sacred. Part of him knew that he'd been awake and under stress for over two days, and once such arduous work formed the rituals his people used to reach the spirit world. His guide flowed out from her resting place, tongue flicking out at the loose tobacco on the floor. Chakotay had the distinct impression she was testing his offering to see whether it was worthy.

After a few sinuous coils the snake stopped to look at him, and he knew its meaning: "Why do I have to work for this? Why is this scattered?"

With that it was gone, and in his exhaustion Chakotay knelt and began to gather the cut leaves. He didn't usually suffer from sleep- deprivation hallucinations until about sixty to seventy hours awake, and so far he'd only been up about fifty hours. No, this was a Vision, and the command had to be obeyed as a priority.

Chakotay took on the tedious job as if gathering the leaves was a metaphor for healing Harry's injuries. He prayed as he searched, prayed to the spirits, and to the Great Spirit which was Universe -- things he didn't believe in, yet didn't disbelieve. He prayed for Harry's life, and he offered in exchange his labor for the sacred herb and the songs that rose unbidden as he worked -- old songs, and new songs made for the moment. When he was at last satisfied that the tobacco was gathered, he collapsed on his bed.

It was just under six hours later when the computer woke him, chanting, "The time is oh-five-thirty." Chakotay groaned and stretched, then stood up. As he dressed he commed the bridge. A very junior watch officer answered. That was a good sign.

"Status."

"Repairs are going well, sir. Lieutenant Banta is satisfied enough with the engines that she turned Engineering over to her second, and is currently asleep. One last hull repair on the starboard lower aft section requires EVA suits, and the crew chief wanted to wait until he had a rested group of workers."

"Good decision. Carry on. Captain out."

His next call was to sick bay, and he was answered by the formal tones of his Vulcan CMO. "Srinak here, Captain."

"Report."

"We have had no deaths, Captain." Chakotay was instantly relieved. The dry voice was continued, "Four crew members were treated for minor injuries and released to normal duty. Four had more serious injuries and have been placed on limited duty status, and three remain in Sick Bay."

"Harry?"

"Commander Kim has not regained consciousness."

"Prognosis, doctor." Chakotay's voice did not betray his deep concern.

There was a pause. "It would be advisable for you to attend the commander and myself in Sick Bay."

That was not a good sign. He grabbed a cup of coffee from the replicator, and made his way to Sick Bay, mug in hand.

Dr. Srinak greeted Chakotay calmly when he arrived, and conducted him into the CMO's office. They stood facing each other, Chakotay watching the Vulcan face in vain for any sign of what was to come.

"What's your concern, Doctor?"

Srinak cocked his head sideways a fraction and began. "You understand I am a surgeon and not a psychologist."

"Yes," Chakotay answered, "but I've always found your evaluations to be of importance."

There was a brief nod of acceptance before the doctor continued. "Commander Kim should have regained consciousness by now."

Chakotay took a deep breath. "What do you think the problem is?"

"I believe he does not wish to wake." The words were spoken flatly, directly.

"On what do you base this?"

Srinak looked levelly at his captain. "I am breaking patient confidentiality under Starfleet order..."

Chakotay listened with half an ear to the citation. This must be serious, and he realized the Vulcan was probably recording the conversation for his logs. Protocol would be intact. "I understand. Go ahead, please, Doctor."

"Commander Kim has been suffering from major depression for the last six months. There has been one suicide attempt." Behind his controlled expression Chakotay was stunned. He'd had no idea. The doctor said, "I have been treating him pharmacologically, but he has been receiving no formal counseling."

Chakotay said, "There are medical protocols for these situations. All suicide attempts are treated as a sign of serious illness." There was a questioning, almost threatening tone in his voice.

The Vulcan was not affected by the implication. "There was no way to prove that the incident was an attempted suicide. I merely deduced it based on the nature of the 'accident', and on the neurotransmitter levels in Commander Kim's readings. The Commander would loudly disagree if I were to confront him."

Chakotay nodded grimly. "Go on."

"I prescribed pharmacological therapy based only on the neurotransmitter imbalance. Up to this point there has been no Command cause for concern. He has responded well to medication and his performance has been exemplary. I was not certain enough of my logic to approach you."

Chakotay cursed inwardly, face immobile. Six months ago was Owen Paris' funeral, the last time Harry had seen B'Elanna and their daughter. Chakotay remembered him as being understandably broody, and then a water skiing accident had broken one of Harry's legs and mangled his shoulder. He hadn't thought of it as anything but unfortunate, but he himself had been dealing with his own mixed feelings about Tom.

He pushed down the guilt. He'd missed it, yes, but he had to keep control. He said, "I see. Do you have direct evidence that he doesn't wish to wake, or are you inferring from the literature?"

The doctor put on that near-affronted look so typical of Vulcans. "The literature correlated with my understanding of his case."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"I have two suggestions," Srinak said. "First, I could give him a high dose of stimulant. Second, we could... convince him to awaken."

Chakotay gave him the look he had long practiced on Tuvok, a near-Vulcan stoicism of his own. "You gave me your suggestions in ascending order of preference."

"Correct."

"How do you suggest we 'convince' him?" Chakotay took a sip from his mug.

"Talk to him." 

"Excuse me?"

"Captain, I am not suggesting a bedside vigil. Quite the contrary. I suggest that you and the senior staff visit him as you would a waking person. Let him know that you still wish him to be engaged in in your lives."

"Doctor, you'll excuse me if that sounds a little too easy."

The straight bangs swung forward as the Vulcan lowered his head. "I believe it is worth trying, Captain, but only for two days. If he does not rouse by then, I will try stimulant therapy." Srinak looked up again. "Commander Kim has refused conventional counseling when I have hinted that it might be useful. I hope for some collateral benefit to this approach."

Chakotay lifted an eyebrow. "Hope?" It was not a word that Vulcan's used.

"Captain, emotions follow a... logic all their own. I cannot be sure."

Chakotay permitted himself to rub his tired eyes. "All right. When do I start?"

"Now would be appropriate, if you have the time, sir. Even a few moments could be helpful." Srinak turned and led the way out to the open area of sick bay. Harry wasn't the only one unconscious, and when Chakotay asked about the other two, the doctor assured him they were merely asleep and recovering well.

The two men walked over to where Harry lay inert, the diagnostics blinking on the wall above his head. Chakotay thought to himself that Tom would understand what all the readings meant, that Tom would know what to say to Harry. The Vulcan gave a slight bow and left him alone with the still form. Chakotay drained the last from his coffee mug and looked down at the bed. Harry looked okay, his surface injuries healed, but there were dark circles under his eyes, and a gray cast to his skin.

The doctor had said to treat him as normal, so Chakotay passed on the reports from the bridge, complementing Harry that his subordinates were well-trained. If Harry had truly been awake he might have told him of the Visions, both the one before the attack and the one afterward, but the open area of Sick Bay constrained him. Chakotay was reluctant to let his logical CMO know he'd had hallucinations.

"We're getting back in shape, Har'. That console that got you -- I've never seen one blow like that. The whole top flew off and slammed you in the chest. Srinak says you broke almost every rib, had your lungs punctured in eight places, and did some damage to your stomach and liver. He claims to have patched you up, so get better. Vulcans hate to be proved wrong."

In the end he reached for Harry's shoulder, simply saying, "I'll miss you in the right-hand chair. Get better, and get your tail back on the bridge."

*

Tom waited in the gym for Dahl, stretching and warming up. Dahl had been right: Tom did want of piece of him, but Tom knew that anger would cede the advantage.

Mack was on the other side of the gym, working with free weights. They'd spent most of yesterday discussing internal combustion and gear ratios, and while Tom hadn't asked him to be here, he was glad of Mack's quiet presence.

Dahl came bounding in, dressed in a white gi that looked oversized, emphasizing his his pale skin and hair. The braid was again severe. At the sight of his opponent, the full lips pulled into more of a sneer than a smile. "Round two, Paris?"

Tom nodded, hoping his legs wouldn't let him down this time. He gave no thought to his smoldering anger, focusing only on Dahl's posture, on reading the man's intentions. They began circling, feinting, parrying. Dahl slipped under Tom's guard and grappled him, trying to turn the sparring into a wrestling match. Tom twisted, grabbing the smaller man by his waist and lifting his legs off the ground as he rolled his own body backward. It surprised him momentarily to note how small Dahl was -- his presence made him seem larger.

Dahl recovered from the roll and got to his feet before Tom could get up. He aimed a kick at where Tom's head had been on the mat, but Tom had moved by then and quickly regained his feet. So it continued until Tom succumbed to the same throw which had flattened him the day before. He didn't stay down, but he did raise his hands to acknowledge defeat.

As before, both men were winded. Dahl picked up a towel and rubbed his face, smoothing back the hair which had escaped from his braid. "Those new implants must be something else."

Tom merely replied, "They are.

"Can I see them?" Dahl asked, then qualified: "Professional interest."

"Which profession?"

"Ah. Yes. Well." Dahl looked embarrassed, but Tom did not believe it was genuine. He merely asked, "Tomorrow?"

Dahl nodded, and Tom turned away toward the exercise machines. His legs needed work. The voice behind him called softly, "Paris?"

He stopped, but he did not turn. "What?"

"Chakotay likes your hair better short."

So personal a comment, coming from so despised a creature, made something snap in Tom. He whipped around, and charged. Dahl made as if to dodge, but Tom knew his fighting style just well enough to anticipate the move. He hit the smaller man full in the midsection, and they crashed to the mat together.

Tom let go long enough to change position. Dahl tried to get away, but Tom turned him over and pinned him down. One leg wrapped around Dahl's knees, and both his hands bore down on the slight shoulders.

"Don't. Fuck. With me."

"But, Tom," Dahl said, in a tone of friendly banter, "you're so very fuckable."

"You bastard!" Tom let go of one shoulder and drew his hand back, intending to hit Dahl square in the face.

The blow never landed. Mack had grabbed his fist. "Let him go."

Tom let the big man pull him to his feet, and watched Dahl get up and nonchalantly retrieve his towel. "Tomorrow, Paris?"

"Fuck off, Dahl."

"See you then."

Tom and Mack stood for a few moments in silence, until Mack said, "I can't believe you fell for that."

Tom shook his head. "I know. It's like being nine and having someone say, 'Your mamma wears Cardassian armor.'"

"Huh?" Mack said. "I meant that throw he pulled on you."

"Oh."

"What is it with you and that lieutenant?"

Tom was still angry enough to tell some of the truth. "I'm not sure whether he's really a lieutenant, or whether his name is Treyn Dahl or something else. He's from some branch of Intelligence." Tom sighed, unwilling to go much further. "He infiltrated the Runners, and I was pretty surprised to see him in a 'Fleet uniform in the mess hall."

Mack was quiet for a moment, then said, "You don't just hate him because he infiltrated the Runners."

"No. No, there's more to it than that, but it's not worth telling."

"What else do you know about him?"

Paris shrugged. "Betazoid for sure -- he's clearly telepathic. Claims to be a trained psychiatrist."

"I'll see what I can find out for you, if you want."

Tom looked at the big man quizzically. "No offense, but I doubt you'll get into Intelligence files."

Mack just grinned down at him. "Not me, man. Admiral Mom."

"You're a 'Fleet brat too?" Tom chuckled. "What are you doing here with the ground troops instead of the Academy?"

"Family tradition," Mack answered in his slow voice. "Ever since wet Navy days we've gone into Command through the bottom rung. I'm on my way back to San Francisco for Officer Candidate School now."

"How come we never met before?" Tom asked.

"Not too social a family, I guess." Mack shrugged. "Besides, you're a bit older than me."

"I guess," Tom agreed, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "Your family's been doing this longer than mine."

"Yep. Served on every Enterprise there's been." Mack allowed some pride into his voice.

"I have to ask," Tom said. "What's your family name?"

"You wouldn't recognize it. It shows up on crew manifests, but not in history books." Mack shrugged. "It's Rand."

Tom shook his head, not recognizing it. "What, do you specialize in Life Support?"

"Nah. Administration and communications." At Tom's puzzled look Mack said, as if intoning a family motto: "Think of all those Enterprises that have been blown up, self-destructed, or crashed into planets. *Somebody* has to call it in and do the paperwork."

Tom stared for half a second, and then burst out laughing.

Mack let the joke sink in, and Tom finally said, "Your entire family does Administration?"

"Not Dad. He's a staff sergeant in light infantry."

"Is that where you've been serving?"

"Nope. I followed Mom into Special Forces. Hey," Mack continued, "I can show you that throw he's using."

"That would be good." Tom stepped back and let the larger man precede him back to the matted area.

It was a simple thing to learn, but very tricky on an unsuspecting opponent. After fifteen minutes, Tom would never fall for it again.


	10. Chapter 10

The morning's fight with Dahl was still on his mind. Dahl's words, "You're so very fuckable," had stung, and Tom had taken refuge in a project. 

He put his brush down and examined the half-finished design on the bowl in his hands. For now, he had done enough. He checked the time, calculating how long he should let the paint dry out in its jar. He intended that the first and last parts of the pattern would not match.

The first bowl, the one Tom had broken on Wolf Raider in a stupid fight with Chakotay almost two years ago, had a flaw he was hoping to reproduce. Tom smiled at the memory of the interruption that had caused him to leave the paint open the first time. Chakotay had come into their quarters and, uncharacteristically, descended on him. He had pulled Tom up from the table where he was working on Chakotay's present, and kissed him without preamble. Tom recalled the intensity of Chakotay's desire, and he still did not understand what had prompted the interlude. Still, the slight color difference in the pattern on the bowl had always been a reminder of the rare unleashing of passion.

So very fuckable. He didn't want the taunt to undermine him. His days on Ursula's Moon, using sex for money, for drinks for oblivion, were a long time ago.

Tom felt as if the time on DS9 had re-opened something between him and Chakotay, something normal and even friendly. He wanted to make a physical gesture. Hardship and violence brought them together in the Delta Quadrant, and Tom had to admit that drama had marked their every encounter since returning home. At least, that had been true until they met on DS9.

This bowl was meant to replace the original one that Tom had broken, to symbolize, perhaps, the repair of their relationship, whatever it's new course might be. The pattern he had chosen for the bowl was different from the old one, and he had pulled it from Chakotay's impromptu legend. He hoped including the detail of discoloration would please Chakotay, would tell him what Tom was trying to say, even if Tom wasn't sure himself exactly what it was. Tom shook his head, thinking that he was getting sentimental, if not spiritual, in his old age.

"Computer, please note time in 35 minutes." Tom settled himself to wait with a padd borrowed from Mack. It contained a twentieth century novel, and by the time the chime sounded, he was deep into a dark detective story set in the middle of the century.

When the tone sounded, Tom put down the padd, went back to the table, and re-mixed the paint. Its hue would be slightly darker than before, though most would not notice. He was finished within another hour, and he left it to dry while he met Mack for dinner.

*-*

The next morning he pulled his exercise clothes from the refresher and went to the mess hall. He was earlier than usual, and there was still a crowd from breakfast. He noted Dahl sitting alone, in uniform, busy with a padd. Tom took his tray to the opposite corner of the room. They were set to meet in the gym in just over an hour.

Tom ate slowly, reflecting on the sparring match coming up. It would be his last chance at Dahl; Tom was changing ships the next day. He thought about how strange it would be to be only a passenger on the Intrepid class ship that would carry him to Earth. It would be good to have controls like Voyager's under his hands once again, but he doubted they'd let him at the helm.

When he was done, he took his tray to the recycler. Dahl was gone. Tom walked the corridors to loosen up, eventually arriving at the gym where he began stretching and warming up in earnest. His opponent was not far behind.

"Round three, Paris?" There was, Tom decided, a hint of malevolence in the Betazoid's eyes, as if the baiting of yesterday had been for the sheer pleasure of watching Tom react.

Realization hit Tom. That was exactly what Dahl was doing. He'd said he was a psychiatrist, hadn't he? He was either the kind of sadistic bastard that should never have passed Starfleet screening, or he was pushing Tom on purpose.

It took only the barest second for Tom to come to this conclusion. "Let's go, whatever your name is." He grinned at Dahl as they stepped on to the mat. "I have to ask, do you ever forget what your name is supposed to be?"

"Never." Dahl's tone was mocking. "You want to talk, Runner? You gotten tired of doing your only flying over my shoulder?"

"Certainly tired of that," Tom agreed, not rising to the taunt. "You ready for a final round or not?"

"Final?"

"I change ships tomorrow."

Dahl shrugged. "So, I've won two out of three without fighting number three?" 

Tom shook his head. "Actually, I think I took number three. Today I get a chance to end up even."

"You want to count that tackle yesterday? Fine." Dahl's shrug was expressively dismissive. "As you say, let's go."

Their stances immediately changed to a fighting crouch. They circled for a good half minute before Dahl lunged and Tom dodged, adding momentum to the small man with a well-placed blow to the middle of his back. Dahl recovered his balance quickly and spun with feint that turned into a lunging body blow. From there it continued, until Tom caught Dahl setting up for the throw that had tossed him twice before. This time, thanks to Mack, Tom was ready, and it was the Betazoid who landed heavily, sprawling on the mat.

He didn't stay down for long, and he didn't concede defeat. Dahl's eyes, so guarded before, turned even more blank. His body conveyed a new wariness as the two combatants began to circle again.

Tom began his second strategy, one of distraction. If the telepath tried to probe his mind, he wouldn't find warp equations or vector calculations this time. Instead, Tom focused on rather vivid sexual imagery, all of it centered on Dahl. Scenarios flashed through his mind in a series of pornographic tableaus. Tom had no idea what effect, if any, it would have, but he let his mind run free. His body, left to its own reflexes, held off several of Dahl's attacks.

Suddenly the images in his mind shifted without his volition. They were still sexual, but in these new ones it was Dahl who controlled the scenes. They were graphic, and they were rough. Tom looked to catch the Betazoid's eye and found him grinning. Tom gave a thought to congratulate his opponent for sheer inventiveness, and then Tom's body struck.

A feint to the head caused Dahl to dodge directly into the path of Tom's other fist. The blow landed hard on the small man's ribs, and in the moment of shock, Tom lunged and knocked him down, landing on top of him. The angle was right for Tom to pin the slight shoulders.

"Why?" he started to ask, but Dahl's legs were free, and he was flexible enough to roll up and catch Tom's head between his knees. The wrestling that ensued was not clean, and in time the entire mat space was ringed with spectators.

Both men were tired, and neither was willing to stop. Dahl had a split lip and Tom a cut above his eye, neither injury purposefully given. Dahl escaped a hold by leaving his gi jacket in Tom's hands, and both men staggered to their feet. Tom threw the jacket aside, and they stared at each other, both panting heavily and leaning with their hands on their knees. Neither trusted the other's exhaustion enough to look away.

The glare was broken when a security team stepped in between them. The lieutenant commander in charge was a solid woman with shoulder length blond hair who carried authority. "I think you gentlemen have had enough."

"Looks like the match has been called by the referee, Paris." Dahl's voice was a schoolyard taunt.

"Mr. Paris," the commander's steely voice addressed Tom. "You are a guest of Starfleet, but I can restrict your movements if I choose. Lieutenant," she turned toward Dahl, who was retrieving his jacket. "Leave our guest alone."

Dahl did not acknowledge the implied order. "It's just some friendly sparring."

She stepped up to him and repeated, "I said, Lieutenant, that you were to leave our guest alone."

By the end of her sentence Dahl was at full attention, staring straight ahead at nothing. "Yes. Sir!"

The security chief spoke to the group at large. "All of you taking bets on the outcome of this little match, the bets are off." A smile threatened her mouth at the few grumbling voices. "As you were." She dismissed the crew who had accompanied her, and stepped over to Tom.

"Mr. Paris, that's a nasty cut. May I accompany you to sick bay?"

Tom touched his forehead, then looked at the blood on his fingers. "Thanks, but I'll be just fine."

"That's going to scar if you don't run a dermal regenerator over it."

Paris' mouth twisted his mouth, shooting for a deflecting grin. "Won't be my first scar, ma'am. Besides I'm on my way to Starfleet Medical, and I'm sure they'll take care of it.

The security chief managed to convey a shrug without using her shoulders. "Your decision, of course. May I walk you to your quarters, then?"

Tom started to protest, but gave in. She seemed to want to speak to him alone. He nodded his acquiescence and followed her out of the gym, pausing only to grab his boots. He carried them in one hand, and followed her barefoot down the corridor. To his surprise she did not speak, and Tom began to wonder whether she really was simply ensuring that he reached his quarters. At his cabin door he turned to her and half-bowed ironically. "Thanks for seeing me safely home."

Her face did not change its expression. "May I come in?"

So she did want to talk. "Of course." Tom keyed the door and stood aside to let her enter. He followed her in, gestured toward the lone chair, and walked over to the small lavatory to look after the cut on his head.

She didn't sit immediately. She stood looking at the painted bowl. "Did you do this?"

Tom looked over from dabbing up the blood. "The replicator throws the clay, I'm afraid, but I painted it."

"Nice work."

"Thanks," Tom answered, holding a towel to his head. "Do sit down."

She took the lone chair, tucked her hair behind her ears, then pushed her feet out straight ahead of her. She leaned back comfortably. "Mr. Paris," she began, "how much do you know about the officer you've been sparring with for the last three days?"

"Is this official, ma'am?" The bleeding had stopped, and he took a seat on the bed.

"If this were official, we'd probably have this conversation in my office."

"Probably."

The security officer sighed. "Frankly, Mr. Paris, I'm rather curious about him, and his interest in you. You do realize," she asked, "that he was toying with you? He could have incapacitated you at almost any point."

Tom's eyebrows expressed surprise. "It didn't feel that way."

She smiled with some condescension. "You have some unorthodox moves, no doubt learned from species in the Delta Quadrant, but... I can tell that hand-to-hand is not your forte." 

Tom sighed. She was right, of course. Everything he knew he learned from the Academy years ago, from B'Elanna and from Tuvok's insistence that they practice. Tuvok was right, though, and in insisting his Runner crew be prepared for anything, Tom had re-learned old skills and picked up a few new ones.

The woman leaned toward him slightly, repeating her question. "What do you know about him?"

He didn't like answering this question, since his answer was so unsatisfying even to himself. "Betazoid. Definitely 'Fleet. Probably Intelligence. Look," he continued before she could ask another question. "Why did you say he was toying with me?"

"I sparred with him before you came on board. He is very, very good. I'm not sure how he managed to fight so consistently below his skill level."

Tom's jaw clenched around irritation. "Well, that's all very interesting, but is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, I suppose not. I don't like having unknown factors on my ship, and I hoped you could help me find out what he was." She rose to leave, and Tom stood also. "Thank you for your time." Her handshake was firm, but not challenging.

"Anytime," he answered.

He stared at the door a long moment after she left. Did they think he was stupid? He felt sure that security hadn't interrupted their match because they were concerned about betting or about Tom's health. It smelled like a set-up, like a way for Dahl to find out how much Tom knew. On the other hand, she seemed to be exactly what she said: curious. He told himself he was being paranoid, but it wasn't as if he didn't have reason.

Tomorrow he would be off this sky bucket and on to the next leg of his journey, he hoped without Dahl on board

*--*

It was time. Dr. Srinak was ready to try a combination of drugs and cortical stimulators on Harry. The doctor expected it to work, but Chakotay could tell the Vulcan was not pleased at the solution. It was a brute force approach, and Chakotay knew his CMO preferred more elegant solutions for anything less than the craft of surgery.

Chakotay walked into sick bay, wanting to be there when Harry woke up. To his surprise, his chief Engineer was already there. She was seated next to Harry's head and speaking softly, her dark, angular features composed in their usual expression of amused serenity.

He watched her for a few moments. If anyone made inroads with Harry, it might be this statuesque, unflappable woman. Banta often joined them for a drink, but always only one. Chakotay suspected she left to let the two ex-Voyagers have time alone. That was her strength as an engineer, too -- to do what was necessary, and to do it quietly and with no fuss.

Though he couldn't hear what she said, the lilts and clicks of her accent reached his ears. She finished loudly enough for him to make out the words, "So there, you big oaf," and to Chakotay's surprise, her dark fingers took Harry's nose and shook it.

Banta rose and stood next Chakotay. "Lieutenant," he greeted her.

"Captain," she answered. "I'll be back to work now, sir." With no further word she strode gracefully out of the room. Chakotay watched her, wondering what she could have said to Harry.

He stepped over to the biobed where his first officer lay. Chakotay could make little sense of the blinking diagnostics, but there seemed to be a change. He glanced over at the other biobeds for comparison, but their occupants had been discharged. When he looked back at Harry, he saw the eyelids flutter, then open all the way.

In a voice croaking from disuse, Harry said. "Is she gone?"

"Banta?" Chakotay asked, too surprised to say anything more. Harry nodded stiffly in reply. "Yes," Chakotay told him, "she's gone."

"Whew," Harry sighed.

Chakotay contained his desire to ask what the Chief Engineer had said. "Let me get the doctor." He stepped away from the biobed and into the other room. Srinak looked up from an experiment.

"Captain," the doctor began, "I regret such invasive procedures, but we are ready to wake Commander Kim."

"I don't think you'll have to," Chakotay said. "He's awake, thanks to Lieutenant Banta.

Srinak raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" He gathered up a diagnostic device, and strode into the other room. Chakotay followed, relieved to find that Harry was still awake. The Vulcan ran his instruments over Harry's body, then stood back.

"Mr. Kim, you should remain in sick bay one more night, then I will release you to quarters if your recovery remains satisfactory. You may have a few moments with him, Captain." The doctor nodded, and left. Chakotay had a sense that Srinak was pleased.

To Harry he said, "Your timing was good. The doctor was about to pull out the big guns." Chakotay's tone was one of teasing admonishment, but given the news of Srinak's diagnosis of Harry as depressed, he was unsure how to speak to him.

Harry only croaked out, "Can you get me some water?"

Chakotay fetched a glass and helped Harry drink. "Thanks." Harry's voice was more normal for the wetting of his parched throat.

"So tell me, what did Banta say to you?"

Harry tried to chuckle and ended up coughing. Chakotay got more water for him, and waited while he drank it on his own. "I can't believe it," Harry finally said, handing the glass back to his captain. 

"Tell me," Chakotay cajoled. "Don't make me make it an order."

Harry sighed. "She said this was my last chance."

Chakotay's eyebrows rose in skeptical disbelief. "And? That was enough to stop you playing possum?"

Harry shook his head. "No, it was the 'or else' that got me."

"Or else?" 

"Or else," Harry began, then swallowed. "Or if I didn't wake up, she'd play one of my, um, private files here in sick bay in front of you, Srinak, and anyone else who cared to watch."

Chakotay could only blink. "Banta said that?"

"Uh huh."

"That's hard to imagine." Chakotay shook his head in amazement. "No wonder she startled you awake."

"No kidding. Couldn't let her do that."

Chakotay doubted that Banta would have carried out the threat, but admired her effective strategy. He was suddenly struck by a thought. "You mean you could hear everything we said to you?"

Harry turned his face away. "Some," he said toward the wall.

Chakotay changed the subject. "So how do you feel?"

Still looking away, Harry answered, "My chest still hurts, but I'll be fine."

The hurt was visibly more than physical, now that Chakotay knew to look, but this was not the time to press it. Srinak had withdrawn to let his captain have a moment alone with Harry, but Chakotay knew the CMO well enough to know that he was near, and quietly hovering. It was time to let him examine Harry more thoroughly. It was time to go.

"Okay, Harry," he said. "I'll be around if you want to talk."

Harry turned to face him, and his answering expression was a wan half-smile. "Just send me those status reports, sir, and let me get back to work."

"Sure thing, Harry. See you soon."

Chakotay turned and left Sick Bay, cursing inwardly. Towards the end he'd adopted his old counseling tone from the days when he'd had to fill that role on Voyager. No, this was not his job, to take care of Harry. He couldn't be his friend, and his captain, and his counselor. The problem was that the ship's counselor was neither his nor Harry's favorite senior officer. Chakotay wouldn't send Harry to that officious, sentimental fool.

When he got back to his ready room, he sent a request to Starfleet Command.


	11. Chapter 11

Two things nearly made Tom forget his desire to fly the Intrepid- class ship that was taking him to Earth. First was that Mack was on board, and second was that the passengers had been granted holodeck privileges. Within two days he had dusted off his programming skills enough to give them a pool table in a less-realized imitation of Sandrine's, his favorite Marseilles bar. To Tom's delight, Mack knew how to play. To Mack's delight, Tom had also put together a version of his automobile mechanics program.

At Mack's suggestion, the vehicle in the second program was something called a British sports car, a TR3 to be exact. It was a cranky piece of bad engineering, and they enjoyed the frustration of trying to get it to run. To make it realistic, Mack had insisted that Tom put in a random break function for the small parts of the car, and a day's delay for "ordering" parts. After six days of this, Tom protested that the details were merely annoying. The six days had given Tom a lot of time to think, however.

It was early in their journey, over the first game of pool, that Mack handed Tom a padd.

"What's this?"

"A letter from Admiral Mom," Mack answered, lining up a shot. "I told you I'd find out what I could about that lieutenant."

Tom looked at the small screen and began reading.

"Dear Mack,

"Can't wait to see you when you get back. Hope you have good company on this leg.

"I looked up that lieutenant you mentioned. Can't imagine he's anything special from his record: Medical corps, no blotches, no commendations, just off the front lines. Personality profile says he's not your type for sure, son.

"Aunt Sophie is doing fine, and she'll want to see you when you get here, I'd guess. You've got a little time before Command school starts, and I think you ought to take your leave someplace quiet.

"See you soon.

"Love, Mom."

Looking up from the innocuous note, Tom saw Mack waiting patiently for him to finish. "Doesn't seem like much," he said, tapping the padd.

Mack grinned over at him. "Nope. Doesn't seem like much to Starfleet censors, either."

"So what does that mean?" Tom's voice was jokingly dismissive. "Your family have some sort of secret code?"

"Something like that," Mack answered seriously.

Tom handed the padd back. "You care to translate?"

Mack took the data device in one of his beefy hands and stood next to Tom, pointing out phrases with one finger. "First, she called me 'Mack' instead of 'Son'. Means it's euphemism all the way. First bit's just chit-chat, always is, except the good company part. I had her check you out, and she says you're okay."

Tom looked up with a raised eyebrow. "She doesn't know me very well, then."

"Hush up, you." Mack put his finger next to the second paragraph. "This first sentence is the opposite -- this guy's pretty interesting. The second bit is his current overt record, which is no great shakes. It's the bit after that gets into the spooky stuff."

"What, that he's not your type?"

"Yeah. 'Personality profile' means records that are supposedly purged. If Mom'd said he was my type, that'd mean there was no match in the purge banks." Mack shook his head. "This guy's been busy. There were four different purged records that matched his face."

"Four?" Tom asked. "How can you tell that?"

Mack's slow voice was amused. "'Four sure.' She could have said, 'Two me,' or 'one opinion,' or used combinations. Anyway," he continued, "She set off somebody's alarms by even taking a look at the current record."

Tom looked up at his big friend in amazed bewilderment, and Mack clarified, "We use names of relatives for certain departments. They're real relatives, but this time Mom's talking about Section Thirty-one."

"Section Thirty-one? Never heard of it."

"Not many have, and questions about it are, you might say, discouraged."

Tom gave a short and bitter laugh. "It's like some twentieth century spy novel. So what is this Section Thirty-one?"

"It's a line in the Starfleet budget. They don't report to anybody." Mack put down the padd. "Your shot, buddy."

Tom cracked in two easy balls and missed the third. When he stood away from the table he asked, "What did it mean that Aunt Sophie wants to see you, that you should go someplace quiet?"

Mack sighed as he circled the table looking for his shot, his easy humor somewhat dampened. "It means to go home, and to not go off alone. If an agent tries to talk to me, stick to the story that I thought the guy was cute and abused my position as an admiral's son to find out more about him."

The rest of the conversation had been about what kind of car to use in the Grease Monkey program.

Now, six days later Tom was pulling off the left rear brake, thinking about that conversation. The words, 'Mom set off alarms' echoed in his head, until he saw the caliper assembly. It was completely different from the right brake, and the parts he'd "ordered" based on the right side wouldn't fit the left. "Shit!"

"What's wrong?" Mack asked in response to Tom's angry noises. The big man was on a rolling dolly under the jacked-up car, working on the transmission.

"Why did we have to put in that subroutine for getting parts?" Tom complained, "I won't be able to fix this until tomorrow."

"What's wrong?" Mack asked again.

"The right and left brakes are totally different. What kind of crap engineering is that?"

"Let's see." Mack rolled so that his head came out from under the car enough to see Tom. "We're fixing a 1930's car in a 1980's setting. Stands to reason that somewhere in between someone would've changed something."

Tom grumbled, "I shouldn't have let you pick the car or put in that parts delay. Now I have to wait till tomorrow for the right replacement."

"Hey now," Mack answered in a soothing voice edged with tease. "If we'd been totally realistic, you'd have to wait three to six weeks."

"Ugh." Tom tossed a grease rag onto the work bench. "You need any help down there?"

"Nah, I about got it." Mack slid himself back underneath. 

Tom walked around to where Mack's legs and lower torso protruded from under the little sports car. He couldn't imagine why Mack had picked this model, since he was probably too big to drive the thing, even if it was a convertible.

As he waited, his mind turned back to the echoing words, and Mack's matter of fact voice telling him that part of the message from his mother meant for Mack to avoid contact with agents of this mysterious Section Thirty-one. Tom waited until his friend had stood up and gathered the scattered tools from the floor of the garage, and then he began, "Mack?"

"Yeah."

"How much trouble did I get you and your mom into, checking into Dahl for me?"

Mack heaved a sigh as he put away his tools. "Can't tell until we get back to Earth, Tom."

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"You didn't drag me. I walked." Mack grinned over at Tom. "Besides, I don't think you could drag me anywhere I didn't already want to go."

"Yeah, yeah, you big lunk." Tom clapped his big friend on the back. "Ready for a beer?"

"Tom?"

"What?"

"Why don't we sit down with that beer, and you tell me everything?" It was not really a question. "If I've walked into serious trouble, I want to know exactly what it is."

*--*

The beep of the comm system broke into a discussion of the coming battle tactics.

"Captain, Federation shuttle Scaramouche is requesting permission to dock with one passenger to board."

Chakotay looked up and tapped his comm badge. "Permission granted."

Harry added, "Docking port two, Ensign."

"Aye, sirs. Understood."

Chakotay dismissed the senior staff. "We'll continue this at fifteen hundred." The officers rose to leave, and Chakotay called Harry back. "I'll go with you to the docking port."

"Something I should know about?"

"New medical officer."

"I didn't know we needed any more medical officers." Harry's answering voice was slightly defensive. 

Chakotay sighed. "I know such requests usually go through you. This is different."

"How so?"

"He's here for you, Harry."

The XO's eyes narrowed. "Dr. Srinak pronounced me fit for duty three days ago."

"Physically, yes." Chakotay had been avoiding the unpleasant truth.

Harry drew himself up. "What are you implying? Sir."

Chakotay leaned back against the briefing table, purposefully relaxed, hands to his sides. "Harry, I know you were receiving neurotransmitter therapy for the last six months. I also know you've been off it for the last week. Frankly, I can see a difference. You've been withdrawn, a little edgy."

Harry remained formal, refusing to follow Chakotay's lead. "Do you have any complaints about my performance, sir?"

"No, Harry, absolutely not." Chakotay said firmly, then sighed. "I requested a psychiatrist for more than just you." He put on a conspiratorial look. "It's not as if you and I are the only ones who detest Counselor Fethat."

Harry relaxed an inch. "I'll be all right, Captain. I've gotten through worse."

"Yes, you have, but I don't see you getting through this one." Chakotay stepped over to his exec and put a hand on his shoulder. "This may be different, Harry."

Harry's guard rose back into place. "With all due respect, sir, you don't know shit."

Chakotay would not be budged. He raised his other hand so that he had Harry by both shoulders. "Harry, you tried to kill yourself." The body under his hands tensed.

"That was a skiing accident, sir."

Chakotay locked eyes with his old friend. "How did you know what I was talking about?"

Harry pulled himself free and walked away, ending up facing the bulkhead.

"Chakotay, if you ever thought I would endanger this ship or this crew..." Harry trailed off, and the captain could tell that he no longer trusted his voice.

"Harry, I'm making sure that doesn't happen." Chakotay could see Harry react with a jolt, and he stepped over and turned Harry bodily around. "This new doctor is here for you, but Command doesn't know that. Talk to him. Srinak will probably suggest it, so go along with it."

Kim nodded, resigned, and in part relieved, Chakotay thought.

"Harry, if you want..." He let his words trail off, unsure.

"What, to talk to you?"

"That too. No," Chakotay took a breath and plunged. "No, I was going to offer for you to try the Akoonah."

It was clearly not what Harry had expected. "You've never offered that before."

Chakotay smiled wryly. "Of all people, you never seemed like you needed it before. Now, let's go meet this doctor."

The ride in the turbolift was tense and finally in the corridor before the docking port, Harry broke the silence. "This is damned awkward."

Chakotay knew what he meant, so he stopped and turned Harry by the shoulders. "First, only Srinak knows why we got a new medical officer. To everyone else, this is just a new crew member. Second, not even this doctor knows why a psychiatrist was requested. At this moment you are the XO, and everything is as it always is."

Harry made no direct response, and Chakotay sighed. "Look, at this point I don't know any more than you do." He gave a subtle look of amusement. "In a day, I expect you'll know a lot more than me, and then I'll feel normal again."

Harry chuckled a bit, allowing himself to be jollied. "Did you always know more than Janeway?"

"About the crew? Of course."

"Like what?"

Chakotay's eyes crinkled with the smile that tugged the corners of his mouth. "Like you never got anywhere with Meagan Delaney that night in the Jeffries tube with the bottle of Taklan wine."

Harry's mouth dropped open for half a second, then he burst out laughing. "All right, all right. So you have no idea what Starfleet sent us?"

"We went into long-range communications silence before anything more than a confirmation of my request could get through. I'm actually surprised to have it filled so fast, especially in a war zone."

"Well," Harry gestured toward the end of the corridor. "Let's see what Command has saddled us with this time."

When they reached the door, Harry keyed the entry sequence and the hatchway slid aside. Chakotay was surprised that his first view of the new officer was of a shapely rear end. The figure straightened at the noise, and Chakotay's second impression was of curling red- gold hair, loosely bound. It was only when the new officer turned that he realized it was a man. 

Chakotay breathed an inward sigh of relief. His fear at having a woman psychiatrist was that Harry would fall for her. Still, Chakotay could only note that the man blushed -- prettily was the best word -- in his embarrassment, as he handed the captain a padd.

The voice was a soft tenor as he said, "Ensign Nwateo Sehm, requesting permission to come aboard."

"Permission granted," said Chakotay, handing the data device to Harry and giving his XO a way to cover his consternation. Harry's preference was firmly female, and Chakotay suspected that the male face that followed the first view had surprised him. "'Nwateo Sehm'?" he asked. "That's a Betazoid name, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." 

Chakotay thought the charcoal eyes were certainly Betazoid, though they looked a bit older than the single Ensign's pip would lead one to expect, particularly in wartime. Time enough to learn why later. "Dr. Sehm, this is my first officer, Harry Kim."

"Commander."

Harry looked up at the introduction, and took the offered hand. "Dr. Sehm, welcome aboard Wolf Raider. If you'll get your things I can show you to your quarters."

Sehm turned back to the small pile behind him, and picked up a box to hand to Chakotay. "I was asked to give this to you sir."

Chakotay took the package from him. It was wrapped in paper, and decorated with stylized images of running wolves. "Tom," he said aloud.

"I wouldn't know, sir. The quartermaster of the last station I came through asked that I bring it." Sehm was now standing with his bags over his shoulder, ready to go.

Chakotay led them down the corridor. His mind was mostly on the box in his hands, amazed that Paris had managed to get it sent into a war zone. Still, with one part of his attention, he listened to the conversation behind him. Harry apparently had learned a lot from his brief perusal of the new officer's record.

"No offense, but you seem a little old to have just graduated from the Academy."

Sehm's answer held an amused tone. "I wondered how long it would take for that question, sir. I was long past medical school and into private practice when I decided to apply."

"With a professional degree you could have just gone to Officer Candidate's School."

"I guess I don't like to do things by halves, sir."

Chakotay was pleased that Harry's tone conveyed none of the discomfort he might be feeling. Harry was asking, "If you don't mind telling me, what made you decide to go into Starfleet?"

"I was on BetaZed when the Dominion's forces landed. I managed to get off the planet within a few months."

There was a short silence before Harry said, "I'll bet that's quite a story."

"If you'll excuse me, It's not one I care to tell." Sehm paused and then added, "I will say this: The Runners are something amazing."

"Yes, they are," was all Harry answered.

They reached a corridor branch and Chakotay paused. "Harry, I'll be in my quarters. If you'll show Ensign Sehm his quarters, and introduce him to Dr. Srinak?"

"Of course." Harry nodded.

"When you're done in sick bay, please bring him by for a 'welcome aboard' chat."

Chakotay held out his hand for the padd with the doctor's credentials and service record. Harry passed it over, and Chakotay balanced it on the box he carried. "Gentlemen," he said by way of goodbye, then tried not to hurry to his quarters.

He perused the new officer's record as he walked. There wasn't much to see. He was just out of the Academy, and Wolf Raider was his first posting. The Betazoid had graduated with Honors, barely, and other than his age and pre-Academy experience, he seemed unremarkable.

Once in his quarters, he set the padd aside and looked at the box. The wolves on the paper told him that Tom meant something by this gift, but what? Chakotay carefully opened the package and found inside a bowl and a note. He picked up the note first. On real paper and in Tom's scrawling hand it said:

"Even if I broke what we had before, maybe this can hold the pieces."

He set the note aside, and pulled out the bowl itself. It was replicated clay, but appeared to be hand-painted. Chakotay looked at the blue lines, and they resolved themselves into an interlocking pattern that could be interpreted as wings and wolf heads. Tom had done a good job, not reproducing the old bowl, but making something new.

Chakotay set it on a table, and searched a drawer for the shards of the bowl that Tom had given him in the delta quadrant, and broken in the alpha quadrant. He unwrapped the cloth that bundled the remains. One of the pieces was still stained with blood where it had pierced Tom's hand. Chakotay emptied the cloth into his new bowl.

Tom's words from Deep Space Nine came back to him, Tom calling himself a badly-set fracture that had needed re-breaking. Perhaps he was trying to tell Chakotay what he was becoming as he healed. Something new, but familiar. Or was that too sentimental for Tom? It didn't matter. The gift spoke volumes, and they were words Chakotay wanted to hear.

The door chime rang. "Come," he called without thinking.

"Captain?" 

The voice was hesitant, and Chakotay remembered the new doctor. He turned smiling in greeting. "Dr. Sehm. Can I get you something? Tea?"

"Tea would be fine. Thank you, sir."

When Chakotay turned from the replicator to hand Sehm his mug, he realized the small man hadn't moved. "At ease, Ensign."

The Betazoid relaxed visibly, almost completely, and took the proffered mug with a shy smile. "Sorry, sir. I'm never quite sure what's the right thing to do. Even after four years of the Academy, I'm sure I'll make some breach of protocol." 

"Have a seat, Dr. Sehm."

"My friends call me Te," he said as he sat in the indicated chair.

Chakotay kept his face pleasant, but his voice was firm. "And your captain calls you Ensign or Doctor."

The grey eyes widened a fraction. Even without exercising telepathy, the Betazoid would know his mood was not unfriendly. Chakotay was just establishing the boundaries.

"Is this your first time out, Doctor?" Chakotay asked, to avoid the silence.

"With Starfleet, yes, but I spent several months with the Runners before I went to Earth. I've been out here and under fire before, so you needn't worry about that, sir."

"Glad to hear it." Chakotay took a sip. "I assume that Starfleet had you brush up on regular medical procedures and surgery before sending you out?"

"Yes, Captain, but permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Go ahead." The dark eyes watched his new crewman steadily.

"You didn't request a psychiatrist for triage and surgery." Sehm's dark gray gaze was just as even.

"No, but you'll be needed there."

"I understand, sir, but may I assume my patient is Commander Kim?"

Chakotay did not let his surprise show. "How do you figure that?"

"Sir, with all due respect, personnel requests usually come from the XO. That was my first clue. Also, I just spent some time with the Commander, and," Sehm took a breath, "I am Betazoid. He's functioning, but there is something wrong, and you're worried about him."

Chakotay sighed, and let down his guard a bit. Sehm might be better as an ally than as just a subordinant, but he was still an unknown. "Well, Doctor, any ideas as to what to do about it?"

Sehm shrugged. "When I find out what the problem is, I'll have an idea how to fix it. When do you expect to be in battle again?"

"Four days. Why?"

The small man smiled, and Chakotay was struck by the Betazoid's physical beauty. "If the commander is at all cooperative, I'll have a report and prognosis for you the day after tomorrow." He put his mug down, and rose to leave. "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I'd like to get settled in."

"Of course." Chakotay rose and showed the doctor to the door. Only after he left did Chakotay consider that it wasn't really an ensign's place to end the interview. He didn't let himself be bothered, and suspected the pretty man got away with a lot by looks and charm. 

Tom went far on looks and charm, too, but he had substance to back it up. Chakotay only hoped this doctor was the same. 

Glancing over at the bowl, Chakotay thought about the note that had arrived with it, and allowed himself to hope. The image from his Vision rose to his mind, the image of the wax and feather wings and the cost to Tom's skin when they were applied. Chakotay wondered if there would be a time when the cost of flying was too high, when Tom would let Chakotay teach him to run. 

It suddenly occurred to him that he might be the one to have to learn to fly.


	12. Chapter 12

"Another drink, Lieutenant?" Chakotay rose and walked toward the replicator to refresh his and Harry's glasses. They drank synthehol tonight, too near the war zone to risk real alcohol. "Enid?" he asked, turning to face Banta.

She was holding up her glass, regarding the last dark drops of the rum she preferred. She seemed to be considering, and finally answered, "No, thank you. I'll just finish what I have."

Chakotay replicated two more glasses of bourbon, and was handing one to Harry when the door chime rang. He stepped away from the lounge area of his quarters as he said, "Come."

The new doctor stepped through the door, holding a padd. Chakotay hadn't seen him since he came aboard two days ago, and noticed that the man's hair was now neatly bound. 

"Captain," Sehm began, then paused as he noticed the two officers across the room. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Not at all," Chakotay said, but he made no move to invite the Betazoid to join them. "What can I do for you?"

"I just have this for you, sir." Sehm handed Chakotay the padd.

"Thank you. I'll review it and get back to you."

Banta had risen from her chair, and stood next to them. "I haven't met our newest ensign yet, Captain."

Chakotay did the honors. "Chief Engineer Enid Banta, may I present Dr. Nwateo Sehm."

The two shook hands longer than was necessary, and Chakotay thought that Banta's look was appraising. It was Sehm, though, who spoke first. "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant. Your accent -- New Jamaica?"

"Yes," she answered with slight surprise before releasing his hand. "'Poor Man's Risa', you're thinking, right?"

"No ma'am." Sehm smiled his beautiful smile, and Chakotay watched her straighten in response to the impact. The small man continued, "Some of us like our vacations less... manicured."

Banta chuckled softly. "So you've been there?"

"A story for another time, perhaps?" Sehm returned his attention to Chakotay. "If you'll excuse me, Captain?"

Chakotay nodded, and Sehm turned to leave. When the door swished shut, Banta faced her captain with her arms folded across her chest. "About time we got something decorative on this ship."

Harry spoke up from across the room, "Well, Srinak says he's 'adequately skilled', too." There was a hint of pique in his voice. 

"Style and substance," Banta said laconicly. "Nice."

Harry raised his glass in salute. "We like to think it's part of Wolf Raider's charm."

Banta smiled and drained her glass. "Good night, sirs."

"Good night, Lieutenant."

She left with her usual easy stride, and Chakotay put the padd aside and returned to his seat on the couch. He looked at Harry, who was lounging at the other end, and said, "So Srinak says Sehm is 'adequate'?"

"Yep. High praise, coming from him."

"Did you tell him to pull his hair back?"

Harry's mouth quirked in amusement. "No, that was Srinak. He said, 'It is illogical to waste time pushing hair out of one's face when one's hands were meant to be otherwise occupied.'"

Chakotay chuckled at Harry's near-perfect imitation of the Vulcan doctor. "Are they getting along?"

"Sure. Te could probably find a way to get along with a Vorta."

"'Te'?" Chakotay raised his eyebrows. "Have you been spending much time with him?"

Harry looked down, suddenly self-conscious. "I guess I have been. He's... He's good, Chakotay." Looking up he continued. "Did you know he did his senior honors thesis on Voyager? _Role of Adherence to Starfleet Protocols in the Success of the Voyager in the Delta Quadrant_." Harry chuckled ruefully. "We're an academic subject."

Chakotay's answering smile was wry. "You can't be surprised."

"I guess not, but it's weird to know that people you never met are analyzing your records, your logs, and making conclusions without ever even asking you if the conclusions are right." Harry shook his head once and sipped his drink.

"And Sehm's conclusions?" Chakotay asked.

"Actually, pretty much on target," Harry admitted. "Speaking of conclusions, he said I should take you up on the Akoonah."

"Anytime you want, Harry." Chakotay said seriously. "So you like him?"

"Yes. He's been through things -- having his planet invaded, spent time out with the Runners. He's known more than just Starfleet; he's had a life."

"I guess we got lucky," Chakotay said, and drained his glass. 

"Yep." Harry set aside his half-finished drink and stood to leave. "Speaking of being written about in the third person, I'll let you get to Te's report on me."

"Do you want to read it, Harry?"

"No." Kim shook his head. "Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Commander. See you tomorrow." They parted with their ritual formality, and Chakotay picked up his unfinished drink and the waiting padd. He sat at the table to read.

The psychiatrist's analysis was simple, if not simplistic: Guilt and unresolved grief. 

Chakotay read the report, marveling at how easy it was to forget that the people around you had inner lives. Sehm had pared the complications of Harry's emotions down, starting with the first guilt of abandoning Libby to marry B'Elanna. The incident which colored everything, though, was the day they returned to Earth, the day Harry spoke the lie that destroyed his marriage.

The lie was not said to B'Elanna, but to Harry's former fiancee. Chakotay knew the story. "Libby, you waited for me," Harry had said, while standing next to his very pregnant wife. "If I'd only known."

B'Elanna had never forgiven him, and their marriage ended. At Owen Paris' funeral, Harry's daughter hadn't recognized him, hadn'tlet him hold her. Harry's grief and guilt were real. He had only meant to comfort Libby, who was shocked to see the woman at Harry's side, but the words were not true. The life that he and Libby had planned could never belong to the man Harry had become, the man who had happily married a temperamental half-Klingon.

In his instinct to ease hurt, Harry had lost it all. Unlike Harry's other losses -- grief from which he had always recovered -- his daughter was there, was alive, and should have been part of his life. In this there was no closure.

Chakotay put the padd down, and sat back in the chair. Sehm's analysis had prompted a sense of recognition, had the ring of truth. As he twirled the thin data device absently under one finger, his thoughts echoed Harry's earlier words: He's good. Chakotay remembered Tom telling him about the medic on the Runner ship who had called Tom a badly set fracture. In some ways it was a good metaphor for the man Tom had been. He wondered whether all Betazoids were adept at explaining people.

He rose and took his glass over to the view-ports, sipping the rest of his synthehol bourbon, and thinking over Sehm's prognosis. Clinical phrases from the report like, "no genetic predisposition for depression, which bodes well for recovery," and "refractory to talk therapy" remained in his mind, but he thought he understood what was really being said.

Harry had to forgive himself. No talking, no drugs, were going to accomplish the change, and Sehm recommended that Harry use the Akoonah. This was not what Chakotay had expected. Sehm had framed his suggestion in terms of a psychic nudge, something to knock Harry out of his current frame, and let him find a way to deal with this as he had been able to deal with most things that had confronted him in the past.

Sehm had congratulated Srinak's perception, and said that it was unclear whether Harry's "reactive depression" would have resolved itself in time. The reckless skiing accident was indeed a serious warning of Harry's state of mind. Sehm cautioned that even should the Akoonah accomplish what he hoped, it would still take time to fully recover. In the mean time, Harry was certainly fit for duty, and no danger to himself or others.

The overall tone of the report, Chakotay noted, was very positive, very hopeful, and underneath the clinical language, even friendly. He found himself agreeing with Sehm, wondering also whether he himself should have been able to see this. Maybe he was too close to have any perspective.

Sometimes Personnel sent dreck, and sometimes it sent latinum. It seemed their new Ensign was a stroke of good luck.

*--*

Tom fingered the strap of his carryall nervously. This was it. The shuttle was about five minutes from landing, and Tom still wondered why Starfleet had actually honored his request for no trips through the transporters. Seven didn't want his implants to be subjected to a pattern analyzer.

Mack clapped him on the shoulder. "Your idle's pretty high there, bud."

Paris snorted one humorless laugh. "I'm not exactly expecting a 'welcome home' committee."

"Oh, if the newsfeeds know you're here, there'll be something big."

Tom looked up at his big friend, slightly panicked. "Oh, no," he began. 

Mack's smile was easy. "Nothing you haven't handled before. If it's on the general news, the Dominion will know you're off the front lines, right?"

Tom recovered himself and rolled his eyes silently in response. In the remaining minutes of the landing sequence, which he tapped absently on his thighs, Tom considered the next few days. He'd told Mack almost everything, but only up to a point. He hadn't said a word about Seven of Nine's plan to steal the EMH. Mack's response to the news of data implants and betrayal had been quiet. It had taken him minutes to find the words to respond. Finally his slow voice had said, "I'm sorry, Tom. You've been lied to by some of the best in the business. Maybe we can find the truth."

Tom appreciated the thought, but in some ways he no longer cared. Nothing anyone in Starfleet could say would be believable to him now. As much as he liked Mack, he couldn't quite bring himself to trust the big soldier. Tom fingered his earring absently. Who did he trust? Ba'ruq, Seven of Nine, maybe Chakotay and Harry. It was a very short list.

Mack sat quietly next to him, and Tom's attention was brought back by the gentle bump of landing. They stood up as the hatchway opened. "Show time, huh?" Mack asked.

"Maybe. It looks quiet out there." Tom straightened up, determined to be ready for anything. They walked down the shuttle's companionway, and Tom was relieved to see only the usual scene at Headquarters' shuttle port. Two figures were standing on the other side of a new entry gate, wearing the red of Command. A petite figure seemed even smaller next to the large, iron-haired woman that could only be Mack's "Admiral Mom". In a few seconds the smaller figure resolved itself into Kathryn Janeway.

Her presence surprised Tom. He had expected to be met by someone from Medical, or from Section Thirty-one posing as Medical. Tom had been ready for that, but the sight of his former Captain was utterly disarming. He hadn't spoken to her since he ran away after Voyager's return, and he had no idea how she would greet him. He had no idea what he would say to her.

It took force of will to keep walking, each step feeling like he was wading through the tangle of his emotions. There was a joy seeing Janeway again that was caught up with the shame of his cowardly disappearance years ago. Also, under the circumstances, her presence took on a sinister quality, and Tom had to wonder if he could trust even her.

Such thoughts distracted him enough that what happened next was more of a surprise than it should have been, since it was part of Seven's plan. It all seemed to happen in slow motion when Tom recalled it later.

He would remember the muscles of his face pulling up the wry grin that covered his true feelings, and the image of Mack striding ahead of him through a gate, eager to greet his mother. Janeway was smiling at Tom in what looked like genuine pleasure. His legs carried him forward automatically until he, too, stepped through the arch that separated the landing area from the grounds of Headquarters.

There was a bright flash, the noise of blowing circuits, and only momentum kept Tom moving as he lost his balance, lost sensation, lost control. Mack had turned at the sound and sparks, and tried to catch Tom, but he couldn't reach him in time. Paris fell in a tangle of carryall and Klingon vest.

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of alarms and running feet. Janeway's outwardly acerbic voice cut through the din, and Tom could hear the gentle affection as she said, "Well, Mr. Paris, I never expected you to throw yourself at my feet."

Tom pushed himself up and rolled awkwardly to sit upright. "Well, ma'am," he smiled up at her. "You know I can never resist a beautiful woman."

Janeway reached down. "Can I give you a hand up?"

Tom gently waved her away. Mack was crouching next to him, concern evident. "What happened, buddy?"

"I'm not sure. What was that flash?"

"Looks like the med scanner blew out." Mack's mouth curved into a half-smile. "Guess it didn't like your Borg technology."

Tom tried to flex his ankles, and failed. "Looks like my Borg technology didn't like the medical scanner," he said grimly. Tom kept his eyes on his friend, but he sensed movement, felt bodies arrive.

Mack glanced up. "Security's here."

"What's all this about?" Tom looked over to Janeway. "Why the medical scanners?"

"To screen for Changelings, Tom," she answered. "They're designed to be unobtrusive, but they're all over Headquarters. After your father was killed -- " Janeway paused and broke off. "Tom, the security team needs to clear you."

A voice behind him said, "Will you stand up, please."

When Tom craned his neck to see who had spoken, he saw a team of nearly identical crew. Even the Bolian at their head managed to look grave and unremarkable. 

"Stand up, please." The speaker was the Bolian.

"I'm sorry, but I can't." Tom's voice was polite, but sarcasm was evident. "My legs seem to have stopped working."

A member of the security team was holding a scanning device Tom had never seen before, staring from the readouts to the subject sprawled on the floor. "Uh, sir?" The young woman with the machine spoke.

"What is it?" The Bolian was impassive.

"He's carrying Borg technology."

"Not anymore I'm not," Tom muttered.

Janeway was addressing the team. "Do you mean to tell me that no one informed you about Mr. Paris?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Paris is here as a guest of Starfleet Medical, and they are aware of his Borg implants." Janeway stepped back with a gesture. "If you'll assure yourself he's no Founder, I'll escort him to the hospital."

It bothered Tom to be sitting awkwardly on the floor while his fate was discussed above. Mack had stayed crouched next to him, at least. 

The woman with the scanner said, "He's otherwise human, sir."

Mack glanced up at Janeway then back to Tom. "Can I pick you up, buddy?"

"Sure, just get me to a chair."

Mack scooped Tom up with effort and carried him toward a nearby lounge area. Janeway's voice behind them was arranging assisted transportation. "No, you cannot use site-to-site transport. He has exercised his right to refuse throughout his journey, and I don't see that changing now."

As Mack set him down in the chair, Tom said, "Sorry to interrupt your homecoming."

"That's all right." Mack stood upright, and the two admirals appeared behind him. Admiral Rand put one hand on her son's shoulder, and reached the other out toward Tom.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Paris." She had none of Mack's slow voice, and she looked at Tom with friendly appraisal.

"Likewise."

"Tom, we'll have a ride for you here shortly," Janeway said, taking the seat next to him. "So, is this why you refused to go through the transporters? Seven seems to have booby-trapped you."

Tom glanced up to where Mack and his mother were talking. They had stepped away. He turned back to Janeway, smirk in place, though feeling anything but amused. He wanted to trust her, but he couldn't, and she'd jumped to the right conclusion too quickly. "Captain," he began, then stopped at her raised eyebrow. For a moment he was lost as to what to call her. Her current rank meant nothing to him -- she had been his captain. But no more, he realized. The smirk broadened into a grin, and he chanced, "Kathryn."

To his relief she smiled back at him. "How have you been, Tom?"

He started to say he was fine, but laughed instead. The complexity of the true answer was more than any word could gloss over. "Well," he finally said, "I haven't been bored."

She laughed with him. "So I hear."

"And you?" he asked.

"A bit bored," she whispered, as if admitting a secret, then continued more normally, "There's plenty to do with the war on, but I feel like I'd be doing more good out there." She gestured with her head toward the ceiling, toward space. "Your father told me that if I ever stop feeling that way, I'll know I've become a bureaucrat."

"Fate worse than death," Tom said, but the mention of his father was sobering.

They fell silent for a moment, then Janeway asked, "So what did Seven do to your implants? Can we take a look?"

Tom glanced away, shrugged, then pulled up the legs of his trousers. The implants below his knees had turned matte, looked somehow dead. He chose his words carefully. "You know how she feels about having her technology exploited. When she knew I was coming here, she warned me to avoid transporters and medical scanners until I was ready to have the implants taken out."

Janeway looked at him with something like sympathy. "Did you know what would happen?"

"No." Tom looked down, unwilling to meet her eyes as he spoke the lie. "I guess there's nothing left but dead nanoprobes."

"Hey, Tom!" Mack called from several meters away. "Looks like your ride's here."

Tom looked over and saw two medical assistants with a ground chair, ready to take him through Headquarter's sprawling maze. He tried to muster some appropriate-seeming remark to cover his apprehension; for once he failed.

Mack must have noticed, but his response was an indirect, "See you soon, if they'll let me." 

Tom nodded and reached for the arms of the ground chair that had been maneuvered nearby. He lifted himself and twisted, using his legs as a pivot. The long vest ended up twisted to one side, and he spared a moment maneuvering it back into place. 

When he seemed settled, Janeway handed him his carryall. "Are you ready?"

"Sure," Tom said.

Mack's hand landed momentarily on Tom's shoulder, then slid off as one of the orderlies began to control the chair toward a turbolift. Tom leaned back and fingered the earring absently. Phase one of Seven's plan was about to go into effect.


	13. Chapter 13

"I'm Beverly Crusher," announced the woman sweeping down on them, blue lab coat waving behind her.

Tom had watched her move towards them, sensing that the red-headed woman had been aware of them from the moment they entered, and was staking her territory by hurrying to meet them. The name didn't ring a bell, though, and he wondered if it should.

Janeway extended a hand to return the greeting. "Kathryn Janeway. This is Tom Paris." 

"Admiral." Crusher assigned rank, then looked down to smile at Tom in his ground chair. Her smile seemed shy. He was annoyed when she said, "I hadn't heard of you before, but a glance through your dossier tells me I should have."

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Well, if they assigned you to me, I suppose I should have heard of you, but they didn't give me the benefit of a dossier."

Janeway cut in, smoothly defusing any budding tension. "Dr. Crusher is CMO of the Enterprise. She removed Captain Picard's Borg implants. She's Starfleet's best in that area."

"Starfleet's best human," Tom corrected. This part was crucial. He had to get them to activate Voyager's EMH.

Crusher looked a bit nonplussed. The expression of amused tolerance on Janeway's face reminded Tom of times back on Voyager, and his old captain was waiting once again for an explanation.

"I would guess that Voyager's emergency medical hologram knows more about Borg implants, especially the Borg that gave me these." Tom indicated his legs. "Where is the Doc, Kathryn?"

Paris could feel Crusher and Janeway exchange glances over his head. He could see a curious mix of polite confusion covering distaste on Crusher's face.

"Tom," Janeway began hesitantly. "Starfleet considered the issue of the Doctor to be one that could wait until after the current war."

"Besides, he's just a hologram," Crusher said, dismissively. "I'm sure I can get any data I need from the EMH logs."

"I'm not sure you can." The suppressed smile in Janeway's tone was obvious to Tom. "Last I heard, his ethical subroutines put a very effective security lock on all files pertaining to Seven of Nine or any Borg technology. If you want to know something, you'll just have to ask him."

Crusher's confusion only deepened at the admiral's explanation. "I'm afraid I don't understand. It's just a program, and subroutines can be bypassed."

"Our EMH became sentient while we were in the Delta Quadrant," Janeway said. "Tampering with his program is inadvisable. He's got a mind of his own, you might say, but he's very good."

"Surely not as good as a real doctor? Those holograms are just for triage, for emergencies. I never put much faith in them."

Tom finally spoke up. He hadn't expected to encounter resistance to the EMH as a medical professional. "Oh he's a real doctor. Better than most. Tell me, Dr. Crusher, didn't the android Data spend a lot of time on the Enterprise? You must have served with him?"

"Yes."

"Was he a person?"

"Yes, of course." Tom watched the doctor realize where he was going.

"And is Data better at some things than a human?"

"I see your point," Crusher conceded with determined grace. "I'll see if we can have him activated."

"You'll need to talk to an Ensign Straepin in Medical Engineering," Janeway said. "Last I heard, she's the engineer in charge of Voyager's EMH."

"Well." The Enterprise's CMO gave her shy smile again, though Tom thought the smile was shy while it's owner was not. "If you'll wait a few minutes, I'll make arrangements." She stepped away from them toward a panel on the far wall of the open atrium that served as the entrance to Starfleet Medical.

Tom twisted his neck to look at Janeway. "So what's up with the Doc?" He knew the answer. He just wondered what she would say, and to his relief, her words echoed Seven's.

"Starfleet considers him a computer virus. His program is in an isolated system, and he's rarely activated." She sighed and folded her arms, her eyes following the red-headed doctor. "I couldn't even get them to hold a hearing on his sentience, but at least he wasn't taken apart. They might have been willing to hold a hearing for you," she added, looking pointedly at Tom, "if I could have presented them with a body."

Tom winced, visibly and a bit dramatically. "I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up."

"Do you have any idea how worried we were when you disappeared?"

"I've been told," he answered wryly.

"Tom, why did you run away as soon as we got back? And why wouldn't you even look at me at you father's funeral?"

He looked away. He was being asked to justify his behavior of over three years ago, and it sounded as self-indulgent now as it had the first time. "When Starfleet denied my commission I didn't want you to fight for a lost cause," he answered quietly. Tom couldn't keep the old bitterness completely out of his voice as he continued. "When my record in the Delta Quadrant wasn't good enough for them, I felt like everything I'd ever done on Voyager didn't matter. Gone. Worthless. I was back to square one."

"More like minus one. Ursula's moon. Even an addiction to Violet, I heard?"

"Yeah, well, I wised up."

"That doesn't tell me why you avoided me."

She was not going to make this easy. "Kathryn," he began, looking away from her, "I couldn't face you knowing how much I'd let you down." He paused, and when she didn't fill the gap he swallowed and said, "I'm sorry. I owe you, Kathryn."

"For what?"

"For being willing to fight for me. For being here. For your almost anonymous help to the Runners." The last he said with a wry smile, wondering whether she knew he knew it had been her all along supplying him with information and crucial technology through back channels.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze, but said nothing.

Crusher made her way back to them. "It's all arranged. Are you ready to get started right away, Mr. Paris?"

"Sure." He glanced up at Janeway. "You don't need to hold my hand, Captain."

She smiled at the appellation. "I'm sure I don't. Can we meet for dinner, Tom?"

"I don't know where I'll be, but I'd like that."

Crusher said, "You'll be staying in the rehab wing, if that's all right."

"Sounds fine by me. You'll find me, Kathryn?"

"Of course. Nineteen hundred?"

"Sounds great," he answered, and she squeezed his shoulder again before walking away.

The trip through the corridor was thankfully short. Crusher tried to make small talk, which Tom squelched by responding with pointed questions about the Enterprise's battle tactics. By the time they arrived at the examining room, Tom knew he had her flustered. He was pleased. The more he could keep her off balance, the easier it would be to do what he needed with the EMH.

Tom assumed the ensign awaiting them was Straepin, and he was right. The woman looked like a standard-issue Starfleet engineer, cut from the same generic mold as the security team at the shuttle landing pad. The realization hit Tom with surprising force that he was now entirely an outsider. He looked harder at the ensign, trying to find some way to distinguish her, but other than the mildly unusual combination of golden hair over defined dark features, she looked as pre-packaged as the others.

Crusher was talking to the ensign as Tom mused on his changed self- image. They seemed to reach some agreement before the doctor turned back to Tom. "We're ready to activate the program," she announced, and nodded to the engineer.

The familiar back of the Doctor appeared, along with his usual abortive greeting. "Please state the nature -- Oh, it's you," he said, addressing his last remark acerbicly to Straepin. "To what do I owe the honor?"

The engineer seemed unaffected by the hologram's sarcastic demeanor. "You have guests."

The Doctor turned to face Tom and Crusher, clearly surprised to see the one member of Voyager's crew he knew best. "Mr. Paris!" He didn't smile, but Tom could see the pleasure in his eyes. Tom wondered whether Crusher could see it, too.

"Good to see you, Doc. It's been a long time."

"Exactly how long?"

"I'm not sure. I think about three years."

A grimace passed over the Doctor's face. "So I've been off line for several months. Well, I can assume this isn't a social call."

"I'm afraid not. Doc, meet Dr. Crusher."

"It's an honor," the hologram addressed her with some sincerity. "I relied heavily on your work when I was converting Seven of Nine." He paused while Crusher made a polite acknowledgement, which he appeared to ignore. "Seven's given you some implants which you need removed," he said to Tom. It was not a question.

Crusher seemed startled by the conclusion. "How did you know?"

The Doctor shot her the superior look Tom remembered from Voyager. "Starfleet's top physician on Borg-related matters is here with a non-Starfleet ex-member of Voyager's crew. Mr. Paris is in a ground chair, which leads me to assume that the implants are leg- or spine-related." He paused to smile smugly. "And your continued look of astonishment leads me to believe I am correct."

Tom was grinning. "I told you he was good. Doc, I've missed you."

"I'm sure I would have missed you too if I'd been left active long enough to think about it. That's a nasty cut on your head." He turned to pick up a dermal regenerator, and ran it over the partly healed scab over Tom's eye. "So why have I been brought out from my cloven pine?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's a literary reference, Dr. Crusher," the hologram explained. " _And didst imprison him within a cloven pine._ "

"Oh." There was an awkward pause. "I'm more interested in theater than poetry," she continued.

"Hmm." The Doctor gestured with the regenerator. "But with opera you have theater, poetry, *and* music And that was theater, by the way. Shakespeare," he added archly, "from one of the plays. You might have heard of The Tempest?"

She blinked at him. "Oh yes, well, of course."

Tom's eyes met the hologram's, watched them roll slightly upward in a sarcasm they shared. "Of course," the Doctor repeated.

Tom changed the subject. "So do you want to look at Seven's hardware, or what?"

"Of course." The Doctor's mouth tensed with a repressed smile. He was mocking Crusher by repeating her words. "What kind of implants did she give you, Mr. Paris, and how did you come to need them?"

"Doctor," Straepin interrupted.

"Yes," both Crusher and the hologram answered.

The engineer shook her head, amused, but addressed herself to Crusher. "I have the report from Deep Space Nine's infirmary. Do you want me to download it to the EMH memory banks?"

"Please, go ahead."

Tom watched the hologram's face carefully. The expression changed as he incorporated the data from DS9, and he ended up with a furrowed brow and a questioning look. It was clear to Tom that the hologram knew the information was not complete. Before any questions could be asked, Tom said, "So I guess that takes you up to Seven's implants."

He held his gaze on the EMH's eyes, praying that the Doctor would just follow his lead.

"Yes," the hologram said carefully, "but clearly these implants have failed."

Tom nodded, not moving his eyes. "I guess she rigged them to blow if they were scanned. The med scanners at the shuttle port triggered a shutdown."

"I'm not going to ask why there are medical scanners in the shuttle port. I'll assume they're to check for Changelings." The hologram's eyebrows went up. "So, what do you need me for?"

"Well, I was hoping..." Tom paused and lifted his own eyebrows. "I was thinking you could try that diagnostic trick you used to do on Seven."

"Which one?" The Doctor seemed to brighten, and Tom could almost swear his eyes twinkled. The EMH had figured out that Tom was up to something, and seemed happy to play along.

"Remember how you used to use your holomatrix to feel interference patterns in the circuitry?"

"You mean the one where I relax the force fields for my fingers and reach into her implants?" Tom nodded, and the Doctor continued, "That was never very accurate, and I wouldn't dream of including my impressions in formal reports."

Tom breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The EMH was just as devious as Tom was, picking up exactly what Tom wanted him to do, and even giving a reason that the technique wouldn't have been in Voyager's records. "Still, you learned something from it that led you to choose better specific diagnostic tools," Tom added, supporting the hologram's lie. The point, really, was that Seven had embedded a message and a small program which had been protected from the general blowout on the shuttle field. The Doctor could pick up the program if he tried the trick on Tom's implants. 

The program would allow the EMH to remain minimally online when he was shut off by the engineer. He was to use the time to re- structure his files so that they could be stored efficiently in a Borg device -- not Tom's mostly-destroyed implants, but a specialized system that Seven was constructing with the help of Ba'ruq. The message buried in Tom's implants gave the details of the plan: The Doctor was to prepare to leave behind a basic version of the program, a copy with certain overt personality traits. The whole, the core that made him unique, was to be ready to download at the first opportunity.

"Well, let's have a look, shall we?" The Doctor helped Tom out of his ground chair and onto the diagnostic bed.

"I thought we were supposed to remove these implants, not repair them?" Crusher asked during the awkward procedure.

The EMH arched an eyebrow at her. "Isn't it worth knowing why they failed?"

"Of course," she conceded.

Tom swung his legs onto the biobed and raised the legs of his loose trousers to expose the visible portion of the Borg implants. That got the attention of both the doctors and the medical engineer. 

"I didn't expect them to be pretty," Crusher said with a slight tone of wonder.

"Under my tutelage Seven did develop a certain sense of style," came the smug answer. "Now," he continued, "I'll do my diagnostics, and then we can remove the implants." 

What about the -- " Crusher began, then paused glancing at Straepen.

"Nanoprobes?" Tom finished. At the red-headed doctor's answering glare he said, "Hey, I'm not bound by Starfleet security protocols."

"Could you step outside, ensign?" Crusher made it an order. It was the most commanding thing Tom had heard her say.

They waited while the engineer left the examination room.

"What about the nanoprobes, doctor?" the EMH asked archly. "Did you remove Picard's? It's hard to know, since those details were left out of your report. Your work was most helpful on the larger implants but the nanoprobes gave me great trouble."

Crusher gave a tight smile. "They gave me trouble, too. Censored. I did originally report them."

"I see. Since I never removed the nanoprobes from Seven, you'll have to fill in that gap. But later. Right now I'd like to get to these diagnostics."

The smile tightened further on Crusher's face. "Then we can remove the implants and begin acceleration of the regeneration of his own nerves." There was no trace of question in her voice. She was trying to exert her authority. Tom didn't blame her, and guessed the session so far had been nothing like she would have expected, particularly the small talk about theater and opera.

"Of course," said the hologram dryly, but he looked to Tom for confirmation. When Tom nodded slightly, the Doctor continued, "Let me just see what I can learn from the circuitry first."

*--*

Dinner with Janeway had gone late, and Tom had finally retired with the help of faceless orderlies, but his sleep was never deep. He was so used to the constant hum of a ship's engine, of a station's power plant, that the quiet of a planetside building bothered him. The same faceless orderlies came to help him up again in the morning. They had come early, waking him from one of the few stretches of true unconsciousness he'd been able to enjoy.

The orderlies bathed and dressed him impersonally, but at least let him eat breakfast in solitude. Tom thought about his former Captain, replaying the evening in his mind. He wanted to trust her, but he would compromise neither his position nor hers. She had felt the constraint in him, and let him lead the conversation until he'd run out of stories of life as a Runner.

Then she moved in. "I hear you saw Chakotay on DS9. How is he?"

Tom started to answer, paused, then stopped. Janeway waited, and he finally said, "He's different."

"Good different?"

"I don't know. Different." He stared at his water glass, unwilling to talk to her about wolves and hawks.

"Any chance you two could...?" she asked diffidently.

He knew what she was asking, and he didn't like the question. "I don't know. We're very different people now, Kathryn." The words took on a note of finality that surprised him even as he spoke them. He hadn't heard a word after sending the bowl, and the silence bothered him. Janeway had dropped it. Instead, she went for deeper wounds.

"Can we talk about your father? I'm not sure I ever told you what he meant to me." She took a breath. "I can't understand his disowning you, what he did to block your commission after we got back, but there are things about him I respect. Things I owe to him."

Tom had stiffened as she talked, refusing to meet her eye.

"You avenged his death, Tom." she said softly. "Can't you forgive him?"

Tom ignored the question and sat back. He ordered a bourbon in honor of Chakotay, and as they waited for it to arrive he said, "Tell me about this Owen Paris."

And she had. The man she described was just as demanding as the one he remembered, just as rigorous, and just as difficult to please. There was one difference between the father he had known and the mentor she had admired. The difference was that Janeway had measured up, and Tom had not.

He didn't tell her that. He had let her think she was expanding his view of his father, giving him a clearer picture. He also didn't tell her that he realized why Captain Janeway of Voyager had meant so much to him. She was just as tough as Owen Paris had been, but in her eyes Tom Paris had, for the first time in his life, been good enough.

He might have been good enough for her, but on the other hand the breakfast in front of him now wasn't good enough for anyone. As Tom mused about how replicators seemed to always work badly in a hospital, the comm unit blinked with a message from Mack. He insisted on lunch. Tom insisted on unreplicated food. Mack agreed and arranged to meet Tom in the Medical building's atrium after his morning session with Doctor Crusher.

*--*

The hum of the regeneration field quickly lulled Tom into much needed sleep, and he woke hours later at the sudden quiet when it was turned off. The first session seemed to be over. Crusher, looking rather pleased, appeared beside him with a medical tricorder. "Five centimeters, Mr. Paris," she reported. 

Tom sat up. He couldn't tell a difference.

She was still talking. "Since this therapy is routine, I'll be getting back to the Enterprise. It was nice to meet you."

"Likewise, ma'am," Tom drawled. Her politeness seemed more professional than genuine, but Tom didn't mind. They appeared to have formed a gentle mutual dislike. "Sorry you came all this way for nothing."

A sharp look crossed Crusher's face before she gave him her hesitant smile. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"The implants. They were totally fused, you said, and the nanoprobes inactive. I'm sure you would have loved to have an isolated Borg subsystem to investigate." The look she gave him was one of surprise, unguarded enough that Tom decided she was not in Section Thirty-one herself, probably didn't know that the original implants had been unnecessary. "Thank you, Dr. Crusher. I'm sure everything will be fine now."

Her smile faded and returned alternately for a few seconds. "Yes, well. Good luck, Mr. Paris."

"Good-bye, Dr. Crusher."

He heard her exit the room, and one of the technicians helped him to dress. They'd given him a ground chair that he could control, and he guided himself out to the large entry to the Medical complex.

Mack was waiting in the atrium for him as promised, dressed in civilian clothes which looked loose and comfortable. Tom thought that, but for the size, the outfit could have been pulled from Chakotay's closet.

Best not to think about Chakotay. Instead Tom asked, "What's for lunch?"

"Sushi," Mack announced. "Real live just barely dead fish, right on the docks. That unreplicated enough for you?"

"Sounds great."

They took a shuttle tube in companionable silence, then traveled a hundred meters or so on the surface, until they reached the waterfront. They were not near the mooring slips for pleasure craft, an area that Tom knew well. This place was one of fishing boats and warehouses -- clean, but devoted to work rather than play.

Mack led them to a wooden building that rose on pilings over the water, two small fishing craft tied up beneath it. There was a discreet sign by a set of stairs, lettered in old Japanese, old Korean, and Standard: "Suishaya."

Tom eyed the stairs, then lifted an eyebrow at Mack.

"I'll take you up. The chair'll be fine here. They're under the radar, friends only so they didn't put in accommodations." 

He pulled Tom to his feet, then caught him behind his shoulders and knees to carry him up the stairs. When they reached the top, a tiny woman greeted Mack familiarly, then called into the back room, "Tell Dae Won to send the boat out again. Mack's here." Turning back to her guest she said, "Who's your broken friend?"

"Don't you watch the newsfeeds? This is a genuine hero. Mama Pak, meet Tom Paris."

Cradled in Mack's arms, Tom wasn't exactly in a position to shake hands. He contented himself with a winning smile. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

"Not ma'am -- Mama!" she answered emphatically. "Mack, put him down."

Mack carried Tom into the room behind Mama Pak, which was furnished with several large tables and a bar. He sat Tom in a chair next to a table made of thick wood, polished with age. The whole room was made of silvered wood, and was either a well-preserved dockside building, or a very good reproduction. A few bright cloth hangings added color, and huge open windows let in light and sea air.

"Nice place," Tom commented.

"Yep, and safe to talk. I'll guess your chair is monitored. That's why I left it down stairs."

"Oh. So what's up?" Tom's question was guarded. 

Mack sighed. "Bad news first, or food?"

"Food!" Mama Pak announced before Tom could speak, putting down bowls of soup. "Anything you don't eat?" she asked Tom.

"Leola root."

"Never heard of it. You eat, and I'll bring you food."

Lunch was wonderful. It had been a long time since Tom had eaten planetside, eaten fresh food. They were too busy with fish and rice to talk, and Tom was impressed once again by the sheer volume Mack could put away. Send the boat out again, indeed.

After they finished and the tiny woman refilled their mugs with steaming tea, the two men sat back, looking out the window.

"Any trouble?" Tom asked Mack.

"No. Not anything we can't handle. Something got planted that would have implicated Mom, but she caught wind of it and un-planted it." 

Tom was bothered that Admiral Rand had to watch her back, but Mack seemed unconcerned. "So what's the bad news?" Tom asked.

In answer, Mack pulled a padd out of his pocket and pushed it toward Tom. "Take a look at this."

It was a list of Betazoid names. Tom looked questioningly up at Mack.

Without facing him Mack said, "Read 'em aloud."

"Gwanino Stehl. Lwaxano Dohr. Treyn Dahl. Nwateo Sehm." Tom gave the names the rolled tongue of Betazoid speech.

"Now read them with a Standard accent."

Before speaking, Tom stared at the names for a moment. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Going in to steal. Locks on the door. Trained doll. Not what I seem." Tom looked up at Mack, who was still looking out the windows. "I guess he's got a strange sense of humor."

"And a new posting," Mack added grimly. "Page down."

Following the list of names was a Starfleet record for Ensign Nwateo Sehm, a Betazoid psychiatrist who had entered the Academy at the age of thirty-three, and only graduated a few months before. The picture showed Dahl's face surrounded by a barely contained mass of curling red hair. The last line made Tom's stomach hurt.

It read, "Current post: Temporary assignment to Wolf Raider. Commanding officer: Captain Chakotay."

Tom let out his breath in a slow stream before he could speak. "Mack, can your mom get a message through for me?" 

"Soon as you can record it, buddy."


	14. Chapter 14

"Captain," said the deep voice of Sarel, the Vulcan at ops. "You have an incoming message, recorded. It is from Starfleet Headquarters."

"I thought we were still under long range communications silence." Harry looked questioningly over at his captain.

Chakotay met his XO's eyes then said, "Put it through to my ready room." He shrugged at Harry, and went to receive the message.

The time stamp was some days past, as if it had been relayed through several comm stations to disguise its origins. An unfamiliar admiral's face filled the screen. It was a woman with a helmet of chin-length gray hair. The voice was clipped and direct.

"Captain Chakotay, I'm Admiral Rand, Starfleet Administration, following up on your recent personnel request. Sometimes such requests are dressed up to cover a deeper problem. If there's anything Administration can do for you, let me know when you're back in range. Don't bury things deep, Captain. There's always more than one way to solve a problem."

As the message ended, Chakotay stared blankly at the screen. It made no sense, though the name Rand was vaguely familiar. He played it a second and third time, with no effect. At the fourth listening it struck him: Maquis slang out of a Starfleet admiral's mouth. 

"Dressed up" was a phrase usually meaning under cover; a ship giving false transponder codes might be "dressed up as 'Fleet." Anything "buried deep" had several layers of false trails. The message must contain another message, but how would a Starfleet admiral know how to tell him, and why?

Tom. 

That was the only logical explanation, that Tom was behind this message. The question was how to decode it. What was the clue? "More than one way..."

Chakotay tapped in the equations for Maquis code two. After a few seconds his screen flickered. The same admiral's face re-appeared, to Chakotay's mild disappointment. 

"Captain, we've discovered our intelligence was insufficient. There are Dominion listening posts all along your route, and you'll probably engage the enemy sooner rather than later. Alert should be heightened. Please find a way of informing the rest of the ships without making it obvious you've been warned. The Dominion expects to surprise you. You'll surprise them if you're ready for their attack.

"Sorry about the nature of this message, but we thought that if we contacted the flagship it would arouse suspicion. You're the most likely candidate to find a way to pass information without it being obvious."

He could do this because he was Maquis, Chakotay finished the unspoken thought.

"Wolf Raider has distinguished itself in all its battles, Captain. I hope you -- " the admiral paused briefly, " -- do it again."

Chakotay didn't hesitate. "Do it again," he muttered, and re-entered the same decryption algorithm. This time Tom's face appeared.

"Hello, Chakotay. Admiral Rand asked me to ask you to relay her message before you view this one. Re-encrypt this back to layer two, pass the word, then run algorithm three on the original message. Talk to you in a few minutes," Tom finished with a flick of his eyebrows, his only change of expression.

At first Chakotay didn't want to wait to see what Tom had to say, but he did as he was asked. He composed a message based on Rand's information, downloaded it into a padd, and took it out to the bridge. "Lieutenant Sarel, set up a matrix of transmission for this. It has to get to every ship, but it has to go as if it's routine communications."

"Sir?" Sarel asked, and Chakotay wondered for the thousandth time whether all Vulcans could raise a single eyebrow.

"I've just gotten word that the Dominion knows we're coming. The rest of the fleet has to be warned, but we don't want to let them know we know."

"It will be done, sir."

Chakotay returned to his ready room, ignoring Harry's questioning glance. He restored the original message, and ran the Maquis' third decryption program. Tom's face appeared, earring catching the light, but there was no smile of greeting.

"Hello again, Chakotay. The implants are gone, and at four to eight centimeters day, I'll have my legs under control pretty quickly. Rehab will be a few more days. It hurts, but when it's done I'll be ready to fly." Tom's words reminded Chakotay of his Vision of wings and wax, but the recording didn't wait for him to muse. "The damage that Betazoid medic did will finally be repaired.

"I want to talk to you about that medic. He's on your ship now, under the name Nwateo Sehm." Tom's face was, Chakotay thought, surprisingly calm. He knew his own must have turned into the granite that usually covered his deepest emotions. Tom's next words made him clench his jaw, and hardened the stone even further. "Dahl, or Sehm, or whatever his name is is from something called Section Thirty-one. No, I don't really know what it is either, but think 'Obsidian Order'. Only on our side, supposedly.

"I don't know why he's on your ship, except that something got you tagged as a possible threat to the Federation, maybe me. He used me, Chakotay. He could have fixed my legs, but he used that contraption to smuggle data chips onto Deep Space Nine and to try to get a Borg system from Seven." Anger finally tightened the eyes of the image of Tom on the screen, a first betrayal of expression. It was an anger Chakotay shared. 

"All I can tell you about him is that he's probably really a physician trained in psychiatry, and that he's very good at physical combat. He's also pretty good at manipulating people, getting them to feel what he wants them to feel. Telepathy, psychiatry, and hand-to- hand." Tom looked grim. "He's dangerous, Chakotay."

Tom shook his head as if to rid himself of of what he had just had to say. "Anyway, I hope you got the bowl I sent, and I hope you appreciate the attention to detail. I didn't have as pleasant a distraction this time, but I wanted to put that reminder back in there. Maybe it's a promise." Tom swallowed and glanced sideways at the last.

"Good luck and be careful, both with the Dominion and with the Betazoid. Until next time." Tom's image faded out.

Chakotay dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his eyes.

His anger was cold, contained. He left his ready room, consumed with the need to compare the shards of the old bowl with the new, whole one. He wasn't sure what Tom had meant by "attention to detail." Before he even reached the turbolift his intent was thwarted by a call from Harry.

"Captain, the flagship is hailing us."

"On screen." Chakotay turned to face the admiral leading the mission.

The Trill commander spoke without preamble. "You're certain about this?"

"The arrival was unorthodox, but I trust the source."

"May I ask?"

"Of course." Chakotay decided to leave Tom out of it. "Admiral Rand."

"Administration?" The Trill's voice contained the usual disdain of a soldier for a desk-sitter. "Our briefings from Intelligence were quite thorough."

"I'm sure they were, sir, but perhaps things have changed." Chakotay spoke carefully. "With all due respect, she's not asking us to change our mission, just to increase alert."

"Hmm," the admiral grumped. "Damned unusual way to inform me."

The sarcastic voice in the back of Chakotay's mind, the one he only ever shared with Tom, said silently, "Shut up and adjust, you unjoined blow-hard." Out loud all he said was, "Orders, sir?"

"Hmph. Carry on. Flagship out."

Chakotay took a deep breath to calm himself. "Harry, help Sarel implement some of Voyager's long-range sensor tricks. See if you can find out where the Dominion ships are."

"Aye, sir."

"Comm me if you need me. You have the bridge." Quick steps took Chakotay to the turbolift, and when he reached his deck he increased his pace.

The bowl. What did Tom mean about the bowl? Sehm, or Dahl, had delivered it. Was that somehow related?

Chakotay spread a cloth out on the table and brought Tom's bowl over to it. He took out the three river stones it also held, then gently poured the shards of the old pottery onto the cloth. Tom's note fluttered to the table with the pieces.

He couldn't see any flaw in the new bowl, other than some places where Tom's pattern of wolves and wings on the rim had been inexactly reproduced. Then he looked at the old shards, pieced a few together to examine them. Eventually he saw it, saw the places where the paint along the sides changed from lighter to darker.

Chakotay remembered now the "pleasant distraction" that had caused Tom's paint jar to dry out a bit before the work was done. He had stopped by their quarters, still on duty, and surprised his partner painting a pottery bowl. The incongruity of Tom Paris doing ceramic hand work and the recognition that the pattern taking shape was based on Chakotay's own tattoo had overwhelmed him.

He remembered pulling Tom up from his work, holding him in a long kiss, thinking over and over, "He did this for me." It was a small thing, but it had moved him, and he had taken Tom to bed with a spontaneity he rarely allowed himself.

Later Tom had mentioned the flaw in the paint color, reminded Chakotay of how it came about. That afternoon must have made an impression on him, but Chakotay hadn't given it a second thought. Now he did. It was the out-of-character things that sometimes mattered most. It mattered to him that Tom had made a new bowl, and Chakotay's unleashed passion had mattered enough that Tom had reproduced the uneven paint that had resulted from it years ago.

Or so Tom said in his buried message. Chakotay looked at the new bowl again. The paint was even all around.

Was it another puzzle, Tom saying he'd reproduced the flaw when he hadn't? Chakotay had had enough of puzzles for one day. The rest of the message had been above board, with no hints and codes. Chakotay decided to assume Tom was telling the truth, prayed to the spirits that he was right, then slammed the new bowl down hard on the edge of the table.

It broke into four large pieces and several small shards. Out of two of the larger fragments jutted the glitter of circuitry -- surveillance devices, he guessed. He hoped someone had been listening, and he hoped the crash had hurt their ears.

Someone, probably Sehm, had switched bowls, turned a gift into spying device. Chakotay looked at the pieces. The sense of being betrayed by Starfleet was almost as deep, but different from the betrayal that was the massacre at Dorvan V. The old treaty with Cardassia had not been personal, though Chakotay's own losses were great. This was personal. His loyalty was being questioned, and a gift of the heart had been perverted.

Chakotay brought his breathing under control, tried to think past the anger. 

Sehm was Dahl, the medic who had failed to heal Tom properly, and worse yet used Tom as a data mule. Sehm had been counseling Harry Kim, helping him interpret the Visions of the Akoonah, and Harry seemed the better for it. The images were difficult to reconcile.

The message indicated that Starfleet might have its own version of the Romulan Tal Shi'ar, or Cardassia's defunct Obsidian Order. The thought stunned Chakotay, slightly blunting his anger with what might best be called bewilderment.

After a few minutes he stepped over to the window. The Dominion was out there, closer than they expected. That was all he should think about for now. Dahl would have to wait. Starfleet would have to wait.

Chakotay felt confident that the right opportunity would come, and mused on the aphorism he'd quoted often enough to calm more rash members of the Maquis. "Revenge is a dish best served cold."

He smiled at the irony, that after so long he would again be working against Starfleet. But it would have to wait until after this engagement.

"Captain to the bridge." Harry's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Status?

"We've got something on sensors."

*--*

Wolf Raider had been hit twice early in the battle. Something about the second hit told Chakotay he was going to lose his ship. He couldn't have explained how he knew, but there was a dead certainty in him that she was on her last mission. His sense of grief was like the anger he had boxed up: an emotion he could not afford. He channeled all his energy into making sure that if the ship went down, it would go down brilliantly.

He took risks then that he would never have taken if he meant to keep his hull intact. Sarel, in the pilot's seat to replace their injured helmsman, had shot him one questioning look before concentrating on executing Chakotay's commands. Wolf Raider was going to live up to its reputation.

A near-suicidal strafing run took out three Jem'Hadar ships and crippled six others. The warp core was down, and shields were only at twenty percent. Smoke filled the bridge, and small showers of sparks fell from more than a few hanging conduits.

"Okay, Sarel, turn tail and run!" Chakotay shouted.

"Run how?" Sarel called back. "Impulse power is down. All I've got are maneuvering thrusters."

"Good. Turn us toward our back lines." Chakotay rose and joined Harry, who had taken over at ops, ordering, "All power to aft shields." 

Sarel raised an eyebrow at him and Chakotay answered his silent question. "If we can't run away, we'll have to get them to kick us out." 

"Billiards," Harry grinned over his shoulder.

Sarel's second eyebrow followed the first. "Indeed," he said, before returning his attention to the helm. "Structural integrity may be compromised."

"I just want to get us to where we can abandon ship in relative safety."

The Vulcan nodded, and Harry said said urgently, "Cardassian vessel has locked on."

"All hands brace for impact!"

It worked. The impact of the weapon on their shields gave them enough of a kick to knock over anyone not holding on or strapped in. With no counterforce from Wolf Raider's engines, it was enough to start Wolf Raider toward the back lines. They were moving, but they had a problem. The Cardassians were pursuing. 

"Any quantum torpedos left?"

"Aye, Sir. Eight."

"Give 'em six." Normally he would have guarded his resources more, but he knew the ship was not going to last.

The torpedoes did their work, and the ship gained more momentum from the wake of the explosions. The ride was rough, and the problem now was the failure of key points in the structural integrity field. Harry estimated sixteen minutes before the hull collapsed. Chakotay gave the order to abandon ship, words tearing from his throat in a grief he could not afford.

As the bridge crew made their way toward the escape pods, Chakotay made a decision he knew might cost him. He sent the others on, then over Harry's objections he veered off toward his quarters. He wouldn't leave without his medicine bundle, without the Akoonah.

In his quarters he nearly tripped over the tied cloth that held the pieces of the two bowls and his three river stones. They had been knocked off the table with the weapons impact and he bent to grab them, re-wrapping them in the cloth. With that and the leather bundle in his hands, he sprinted toward the escape pods.

He came across a few sprawled bodies on the way, and he checked each one quickly for signs of life. They were all dead, and he felt another pang as he cataloged their names. If he survived it was his duty as their captain to honor their bravery to their families. Then he spotted Sehm pinned under a section of fallen wall.

The Betazoid was only unconscious. Chakotay set his bundles down and threw off the panel. Sehm's leg turned unnaturally, and a shard of bone stuck out of the thigh. It seemed like a very long minute as Chakotay decided whether or not to simply leave him and let circumstances make his revenge.

Then he had it, knew what to do with a certainty that defied logic. He hauled Sehm over his shoulder, head forward. Chakotay gathered his belongings and continued toward the escape pods. The first one he reached had already launched, and the second was sealed and would depart within seconds. The third was empty.

He stepped in, and carried his burden over to the control panel. Lifting the dangling hand, Chakotay used the Sehm's own finger to set the pod's trajectory, locking in the program. Then he dumped the body on an acceleration couch.

Chakotay stripped off his tunic, which was stained down the back with blood from the Betazoid's broken leg. His trousers and T-shirt had been spared, so he stuffed the bloody clothing into the pod's recycler. If he made it out of this alive, the last thing he wanted to do was explain why his uniform was covered with the spy's blood.

Before leaving he looked at Sehm, seriously considering whether to break his back, to give the spy the same injury that Tom had been left with. Instead he spoke out loud to the insensible form.

"The only reason I didn't leave you to die is what you've done for Harry, but I could kill you right now for what you did to Tom." Chakotay drew a breath and turned to pick up the medicine bundle and the cloth pouch.

He was shocked, utterly unprepared to feel a hand grab the waistband of his trousers, a fist land on his solar plexus. Breathing became impossible, and as he bent double and failed desperately to get air, Sehm's other hand grabbed his shirt front. The small man used his leverage to bring Chakotay's face down hard onto a rising elbow, twice. Chakotay felt and heard the crunch of the bone around his eye, felt his teeth cut into his lips.

Sehm shoved upwards and let go, and Chakotay toppled backwards. He landed hard and couldn't get up. Part of his mind was filled with a detached annoyance at himself for being so thoroughly caught, and he thought, _Tom tried to warn me_.

Sehm's voice came to him, sounding oddly calm. "I met Tom Paris before I was Treyn Dahl. It was a while ago," Sehm continued. "One of my first assignments was to check out rumors of a certain blond ex-Fleet selling his ass on Ursula's Moon."

Chakotay struggled to inhale, catching small breaths, but unable to fill his lungs yet. He managed to turn himself over, to push up to his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his mouth to the floor. Disbelief replaced the detached annoyance.

Behind him the Betazoid kept talking. "Of course I had to be a customer to get near him. He wouldn't remember me, he was so drugged up then. I went back more than once to be sure he wasn't a threat to the Federation." Sehm said the last with irony, then chuckled dryly. "Even stoned out of his mind, he was so very fuckable. And that mouth... Well, I'm sure you know all about that mouth."

Anger overcame the disbelief and brought Chakotay to his feet, rising with every intent to kill. His mind clouded by pain and rage as he turned to where the small man lay, the white shard of bone sticking out of his thigh. The expression on Sehm's face showed almost none of the pain he should be feeling, and instead was mocking and calculating. Chakotay knew he was being baited. Tom's other warning rang in his head, that Sehm was a manipulator.

Chakotay became aware, with the inner sight few others understood, of a cool presence within himself. A tone of sarcastic but gentle admonishment marked the voice of his spirit guide reminding him, "Best served cold."

Cautiously and without taking his eyes off the Betazoid, Chakotay retrieved his bundles, head throbbing with the pain of bending down. As he backed toward the hatch he tried to smile, but the broken bones in his face turned the attempt into a one-sided grimace. After crossing the threshold he keyed in the launch commands and heard the pod break away. It was heading straight for the Dominion lines. If they didn't kill the Betazoid by shooting the escape pod, they'd torture him for information. Torture sounded good to Chakotay, and this way his own hands stayed clean.

He didn't know what Sehm had been trying to do, whether it was trapping him in the pod, or trying to get Chakotay to kill him. It didn't matter. There were a very few minutes left for Wolf Raider's captain to find an escape pod of his own, and he couldn't run. The pain of the broken bones in his face grew with every jarring step. He leaned against a wall and felt himself begin to pass out, barely able to hear the voices calling his name as he slid to the floor.


	15. Chapter 15

Janeway's face smiled at Tom from the view screen. "I hear you'll be discharged tomorrow."

"Like a capacitor," Tom said.

From a seat near Tom, Seven answered Janeway's confusion. "It is a twentieth century reference, Admiral. It is a joke. Barely."

Janeway ignored the byplay. "Where will you go, Tom? The Rand's? You could stay with me."

"Actually, I was going to stay with Seven of Nine." This was not entirely true; they weren't staying. He and Seven planned to remain on Earth only as long as it took to download Voyager's EMH. He hoped Janeway would be their ticket into Medical Engineering.

"When did you get back, Seven?" Janeway asked.

The Borg moved to sit beside Tom, who inched over to make room for her in front of the console. "I returned yesterday."

"So how was your vacation? You were a little overdue for one." Janeway asked, "Do you feel more relaxed?" 

"It was interesting, but I am unsure whether I am always relaxed, or never."

Janeway laughed, then said, "So what can I do for you two?"

"Well," Tom began, "we were hoping you could get us in to see the Doctor again. Seven would like a maintenance check up, and I'd like to thank him and say good bye."

"I don't see why not."

"But Medical Engineering doesn't see any reason why we should," Tom countered. "Kathryn, they deactivated him before I even got out of surgery."

"Yes, you told me." Janeway frowned slightly. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Admiral," said Seven.

"I'll call you back when I learn something."

Tom smiled at her image on the screen. "Thanks, Kathryn."

The viewer returned to its resting screen of the Federation symbol. Tom turned to Seven, who was still sitting on the bench next to him. "Think it'll work?"

"If we can get to see the Doctor, my plan will work. We must succeed in distracting this Ensign Straepin. She will undoubtedly notice the increase in his program's activity as he copies himself into my implant."

"Any suggestions?"

A rare and wicked grin spread over Seven's face. "I could kiss him, and have him interface with an implant in my mouth. That might distract the ensign and kill, as you would say, two birds with one stone."

Tom chuckled at the mental image, but shook his head. "No, I think Straepin would avert her eyes, and they'd avert right over to her console."

"You are correct, but you have given me an elegant solution," Seven said seriously. Tom raised his eyebrows in question, and she explained, "Privacy is customary in medical examinations."

Tom's screen beeped before he could do more than laugh. He didn't think it would be that easy.

Janeway's face appeared. "It took a little work, but you're to meet Straepin in the atrium at fourteen hundred today."

"Thanks, Kathryn." Tom kept his smile intact. "I hope you didn't twist anyone's arm too hard."

"No, I think the ensign wanted to meet the Borg." There was humor in the Admiral's voice.

Seven lifted her brow implant. "I will endeavor to be worth meeting."

"I'm sure you will be. Tom, don't leave without saying good bye."

He looked momentarily offended, although he had intended to do just that. "Yes, ma'am," he drawled, lying easily.

"Let me know if you need anything more, Mr. Paris."

"Thank you, Admiral."

Tom turned away from the darkened screen. "Phase two. Let's get lunch," he said to Seven, who nodded in reply. "

*--*

They waited in the atrium, full of Mama Pak's sushi. Seven of Nine had little sense of taste for pleasure, though as she put it her lingual chemorecepters were quite acute. She had decided that sushi was an efficient form of nutrition for the consumer, if not for the preparer, until Tom introduced her to wasabi. Wasabi, said Seven, was fun. 

In between bouts of fun Seven told Tom about her time with Ba'ruq's people. She had helped him install the Dominion shield, altering it enough that its energy signature would not register as Dominion, and had set a warning system so that it would only engage when needed. Ba'ruq in turn had helped her to build and integrate storage units for the Doctor's holomatrix which would not be detected. Her back was now covered by a flexible set of data cores. Tom was both impressed and relieved.

Now he hoped the next few hours would go as smoothly as a Borg/Ba'ruq engineering project. 

They did not have long to wait before Straepin emerged from the sea of uniforms and joined them quietly. "Mr. Paris."

Tom smiled down at her, surprised to notice that she was fairly short. He had only seen her before from the vantages of ground chair and biobed. "Ensign Straepin," he said. "Seven of Nine, may I present our Doctor's latest caretaker."

Seven did not answer the engineer's reaching hand. She was fully in the mode Tom thought of as Borg cool. "Ensign," she acknowledged.

"Pleased to meet you," Straepin managed to say, her dark face flushing slightly.

Seven merely inclined her head slightly and said in flat tones, "You will conduct us to Voyager's emergency medical hologram."

Tom suppressed a smile as the ensign fulstered, "Yes, of course. This way, please."

They followed the ensign to the examining room housing the Doctor's isolated system. At one point Straepin turned to make conversation, but seemed to think the better of it. Tom was amused to see that the engineer appeared unable to face Seven's cool, appraising look.

When they reached the room, Straepin made for the computer console and keyed in a few commands. The EMH appeared.

"Please state the nature of the medical -- Oh, it's you," he said to Straepin. "How long has it been this time?"

"Just over a week," said Tom.

The Doctor turned at the sound. "Mr. Paris. Seven!" The second was said with deep pleasure. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

"Nor was I," the Borg answered. "Admiral Janeway intervened on my behalf."

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this brief reminder of my existence?"

"She needs a tune up," said Tom, but he was ignored.

"I am in need of maintenance. It has been more than two years since my last visit."

"Ah. Any complaints?" The EMH had switched from personal into professional mode.

"I do not complain," Seven answered with a hint of testiness, "but several systems are not functioning at peak efficiency."

"All right," the Doctor said, turning to pick from a group of instruments. "Please disrobe."

"No."

"Seven, you know I need to make a complete examination and have physical access to all your implants."

"Understood, but I will not comply while we still have... spectators." Seven did not look away from the Doctor as she spoke, but her tones were dismissive.

The hologram sighed and looked pointedly from Straepin to Tom. "If you'll excuse us?"

The engineer hesitated, a look of uncertainty on her dark face. At Tom's prompting -- "We'll be just outside." -- she seemed to change her mind and after tapping a few commands into her terminal, stepped toward the door.

The Borg's abrupt voice stopped her before she had gone far. "You do not have my permission to record my medical examination."

Sheepishly Straepin stepped back, and appeared to enter the counter commands. "Sorry," she murmured, and exited. 

Tom followed her out, and they stood just outside the door. He couldn't believe it was this easy. He imagined what was happening inside the room, how the Doctor would be downloading himself into the implants that now covered Seven's back in a thin layer of Borg circuitry. 

A basic EMH would be left behind with a few subroutines added so that it would overtly sound like Voyager's program, with an intact ethical matrix. This would ensure that Seven of Nine's medical records would still seem unavailable, and in reality they would be removed with the Doctor. If Starfleet ever did get around to looking into the question of the EMH's sentience, they would probably decide that the Voyager crew had been deluded. 

Tom wondered again whether he should tell Janeway what they were doing. She might support it, but the chances were also high that she would turn them in for theft. He sighed at the thought, the noise attracting Straepin's attention.

"Mr. Paris?"

"Tom, please."

His response seemed to restore the confidence she had shown in his previous encounter with her. "The program isn't really sentient, is it?"

"What do you think?" he asked, mentally thanking her for the opening.

"It mimics it pretty well, but I wonder whether all those details like the love of opera weren't put there by one of Voyager's crew to make him seem more human." She looked speculatively at Tom. "I heard you were Voyager's best holoprogrammer."

This was going to be too easy. "I'm not that good, not like Harry Kim," Tom dissembled. "Besides, if it had been me, I don't think opera would have topped my list of musical interests."

Straepin smiled. "Perhaps it would have been too obvious if you'd chosen internal combustion vehicles, or twentieth century speculative fiction. You could have been covering your tracks."

Startled by her knowledge of his Voyager pastimes, Tom fought to keep focused enough to plant the seed he wanted to leave behind. He answered her, "Maybe somebody did it on purpose, but they'd have to have been awfully patient. I worked pretty closely with him, and he changed slowly." Tom let out a sigh he hoped wasn't overly dramatic. "I don't know. Maybe we were kidding ourselves. Maybe we needed to feel like our doctor was a real person."

Tom thought he'd said enough, and then, as if just thinking about it, he asked, "So how do you know so much about my holoprograms on Voyager?"

He listened with half an ear as the ensign told him about her Academy roommate, a counseling student who had done her honors project on Voyager's leisure activities. Tom thought it was a stupid thesis for wartime, and was uncomfortable with the idea of being studied. He was barely paying attention, though; his real concern was with Seven of Nine and the hologram. He fervently hoped that Seven could make it so that Straepin suspected nothing.

He let the ensign talk, and asked questions enough to keep her talking until she stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry. You must be bored with me."

Tom brought his attention back to her and gave her the Paris grin. "Not at all."

"I never even asked about your legs."

"They're fine. Good as new," Tom answered, still smiling but actually becoming concerned. What was taking Seven so long?

They stood quietly a few minutes longer before the door slid open and the Borg stepped through. "My examination is complete."

Tom stepped past her, pausing to catch her eye. Her head inclined a few millimeters. Transfer complete. He walked over to where the EMH stood, arranging his instruments.

"So I guess this is good-bye, Doc."

"Not so fast, Mr. Paris." The hologram turned, a medical tricorder in hand. "I want to check your regenerated nerves."

Tom smiled indulgently, thinking that the real Doctor would have done the same. "Sure." He hopped up on the biobed and stuck his legs straight out.

The Doctor moved the probe over Tom's outstretched limbs, concentrating on the tricorder's display. He finally shut it with a snap, and pronounced, "Good as new."

"Just like I've been saying."

"Well, good bye, Mr. Paris. Try not to get your spine severed again." The tone was marginally different from the EMH's usual brand of sarcasm. Tom wondered whether the slight change would be apparent to Straepin, but he doubted it. She didn't have his years of experience with the Doctor.

Straepin was at her console, a slight frown on her face. Tom began to get worried, and glanced at Seven. Seven's eyes were on the engineer, and she said, "I said that you did not have permission to record my examination."

A stricken look settled on the ensign's dark face. "She blocked my archive routine. I'm supposed to record everything he does."

"He examined me," Seven said flatly. "I needed routine maintenance. He performed the appropriate adjustments. That should be sufficient information for your archive."

"I can't just say that," Straepin said. "I'm supposed to analyze his speech patterns, and his diagnostic algorithms. I shouldn't have left the room," she said, chastising herself.

Tom walked to her, gave Straepin his best Janeway-style shoulder squeeze. "You couldn't know she would block your program, ensign. If your superiors reprimand you, appeal to Admiral Janeway. You were asked to cooperate with us, weren't you?"

"Yes," Straepin sighed.

"And so you did," Tom said, as if that ended the matter. "Computer, deactivate emergency medical hologram."

The long-familiar disembodied voice said, "Authorization required."

"Paris epsilon four --" Tom caught himself and chuckled ruefully. Perhaps there was a little 'Fleet left in him. "Ensign we'll leave him to you. Good bye, Doctor."

"Good bye." The hologram turned to Straepin. "Back in the box with me."

She keyed in the commands, frowning as the hologram disappeared. "He's usually not so eager to be turned off."

Seven glared at the engineer. "You have never seen him after he examines me. It is demanding work."

Tom kept a straight face, but it was difficult. Seven of Nine was doing her best to intimidate Straepin, and she was succeeding. He could imagine what the ensign was thinking, that even a program would need a break after dealing with a Borg.

"Shall we?" He gestured Seven toward the door. Tom followed her out, thanking Straepin one last time. It was only when they reached the atrium that he realized how nervous he was. They walked nonchalantly, but Paris was on high alert.

Janeway was waiting for them. Tom couldn't interpret the dark look on her face. Seven caught his eye and took a deep breath. 

"I asked that she meet us here. I could not leave without saying good bye to her."

"That's awfully sentimental of you. Didn't we agree that the best thing to do was to leave immediately?"

"And we will. After saying good-bye. We both owe her at least that."

They reached Janeway within a few more steps.

"Tom, you were going to sneak out on me again, weren't you?"

He brazened it out, despite his annoyance at Seven. "Well, I was never very good with long partings, Kathryn."

"It was good to see you. You don't have to stay away anymore."

He winced internally. "All right."

"How are you planning to get around? I don't think Starfleet has offered you any more transport."

Seven of Nine spoke. "We will use the White Raven."

"Your flier." Janeway assessed the Borg evenly. "So you're leaving, too?"

"That is why I asked you to meet us." Cool blue eyes looked at Janeway, and uncharacteristically glanced away. "I have been alone since Voyager returned to the Alpha quadrant and my collective was dispersed. I am in search of a new... family."

"Starfleet is not enough?"

"Admiral, I am an oddity here, and not one of you." Seven's voice sounded final, and Janeway didn't argue.

"You're joining the Runners?"

"Yes."

"Good luck to you both then." 

Janeway started to withdraw into formality, but Tom would have none of that. He bent, taking her into his arms for a parting embrace. Only when he held her he was reminded how small she really was, a larger presence in a tiny frame. Like Dahl had been. The thought intruded grimly, and Tom wondered what the Betazoid was doing on Chakotay's ship, and what Chakotay had done once he knew who Dahl was. He let Janeway go, a wan smile masking his concern. 

Janeway squeezed his shoulders as he let her go, and turned to Seven of Nine. Formality rose again, as if she was uncertain what gesture would be welcome. The Borg bent to embrace her, and Tom could see a look of loss on Seven's face as she murmured, "Good bye, Captain. Thank you."

Janeway straightened her face into the mask of command that Tom knew so well from her, from his father, from his own face. It was the mask that hid true feelings and gave the illusion of control to those who needed to see it. She looked at them evenly, then let her lips quirk toward a smile. "Don't do anything too stupid," she said, and turned to leave. 

Tom chuckled, amused that she couldn't resist giving them orders.

"I would like to depart immediately," Seven announced.

"Me, too." 

They walked out into Earth's sunshine and began to make their way to the private shuttle port in Arizona. They moved with apparent casualness, taking a public transports from the coast to the desert. They were nervous, but waited for the final tram with apparent nonchalance. Tom was suddenly thankful for all the time he'd spent being different characters in the holodeck. Mentally he posed himself as a jaded playboy, traveler of the galaxy, but he couldn't quite hold it.

He wondered whether he should have contacted his father's widow, or tried to see the half-brothers who didn't know he existed. At Owen Paris' funeral Tom had stayed away from them. He had been indecisive about continuing to stay away ever since he let himself think about it during a regeneration session. The boys had just lost their father, he rationalized, and didn't need any more upsets. It was best he had left them alone.

They reached the shuttle port and the White Raven without incident. From the outside it looked much like the Delta Flyer, but the inside used more Borg technology than Voyager's shuttle. Their few bags were already stowed. As soon as they were aboard, Seven called for clearance to take off and began to warm the engines. They were given a departure window thirty minutes away.

For thirty minutes he expected them to be boarded by Starfleet Security, but they lifted off without raising any suspicions. Too easy, he congratulated himself.


	16. Chapter 16

After nearly two days with little to do but tend to the autopilot, Tom itched to chat. He liked Seven of Nine, with her dead-pan humor and the unsentimental gentleness he knew to lie under her steely exterior. One thing he could never get used to, though, was her Borg- like distaste for 'irrelevant conversation.' 

White Raven was cruising on autopilot, and Tom found her at a computer console, rapidly reviewing text data.

"What's up?"

"I am researching the Runners. I wish to be well versed in the ways of my new collective."

Tom realized she was nervous. He felt he was returning home, but this would be new for her, and he had forgotten that. Even he could be misled by Borg cool.

A glance over her shoulder showed him that she was reviewing popular news stories, and he laughed. "That's pretty sensational stuff. It's not always like that."

She touched a control and blanked the screen, then turned deliberately to face him. "What is it like, Tom?"

Momentarily startled, he breathed a quiet laugh before answering. "It's dangerous, frightening, boring, exhilarating. You do what needs done, with no Starfleet protocols to slow you down. You have to find your own way out here."

"No rules? No guidelines?" She seemed more openly apprehensive.

"Not 'no rules.' A ship is a ship, and a Captain still has complete command. That's the only way you survive out here. But you have your own missions and there are no restrictions but the laws of physics as to how you get them done."

She turned back to the console, but did not call up any displays. "I wish we had had this discussion earlier. It sounds chaotic," she said, irritated.

"It is." Tom spoke to her back, which stiffened at his words. He turned her chair around, determined to reassure her. "Look, Seven, the Borg understand non-linear dynamics better than any other species, right?"

"That is true, though the Borg strive to eliminate random elements in the search for perfection."

"But they can't can they? And they even harness the chaos in their quantum technology, don't they?"

"They do."

"Non-linear dynamics produce apparent linear movement."

She relaxed slightly, interested in Tom's train of logic.

"Look, say a Starfleet crew has to get from point A to point B." He indicated two places in the space between them. "But they're constrained by regulations. To an outside observer it looks like they're taking a curved route, but to the 'Fleet crew, they feel like they're on a straight path." Tom drew his descriptions in the air, sketching an arc with his palm from one point to the other.

"Runners can just do this," he continued, drawing the straight connection. "But to Starfleet, it looks like we're the ones off the line. It's much more efficient," he finished with an encouraging grin.

Seven's focus shifted from Tom's invisible illustrations to his face. "I believe I can adapt."

Tom's smile broadened. "Good. I'm glad to have you with us."

A beeping alert called them to the pilot's station. They were only a few minutes away from their rendezvous with the Logan.

Tom's pulse quickened in nervous excitement. Since he had Seven talking, he indulged in the banter that usually served to distract him. "So, can I ask you a question?"

"You are going to do so anyway. Why request permission?"

He chuckled. "Okay, here goes. Back on DS9, that Ferengi ensign, and Harry, did you sleep with them?"

"There was no unconsciousness involved," she answered flatly.

"You know what I'm asking," he cajoled.

"You wish to know whether I copulated with them."

"And?" 

"I did not."

"Huh." Tom sat back heavily, bemused. "I was sure you and Harry..."

"We intended you to make that assumption." Her mouth quirked in amusement.

"Damn." Shaking his head, Tom ventured, "Have you ever?"

She was silent for a long minute, and Tom began to wonder whether he had over-stepped her bounds. At last she said quietly, "No."

"Why not?" he asked gently, afraid he knew the answer.

"I am Borg."

Tom Paris was Voyager's former medical assistant, and he knew what she meant. She was capable of copulation, but elimination processes were one of those messy things that Borg assimilation did away with. The Doctor had restored much, but to someone not expecting it, the sight of Seven of Nine nude could be a shock.

"You can't expect everyone to be put off by your implants. I mean, people do marry across species." Tom did his best to return his tone to normal banter. Of course even banter with Seven could turn uncomfortably serious.

To his relief, her tone matched his. "You are correct, Though the general trend would be toward -- " She broke off, then chose her word, "...distaste. However, perhaps one day a non-linearity may be worth exploiting."

Tom looked over at her profile, and saw that her expression was neutral. He put her possible future sex life out of his mind instantly, because the Logan was on screen, and Ba'ruq was hailing them on audio.

"White Raven here, requesting permission to dock," Seven answered.

"Permission granted," came the Klingon voice. "Any trouble?"

Seven glanced at Tom before answering. "Only what I brought with me."

"Paris!" Relief and pleasure were evident in the loud growl.

"Guilty as charged, Ba'ruq." Tom found he was grinning. "Any trouble?"

The answer was grumpy. "My trouble is that I'm sitting in the command chair, and not you."

"Well, we'll see what we can do about that, my friend."

"We'll see you as soon as you dock. Did you get it?"

Seven answered, "We were successful in removing the complete files of Voyager's emergency medical hologram."

"Good!" Tom could hear a note of triumph in Ba'ruq's voice. "I've completed outfitting the sick bay with the computer and holoemitters he'll need. I took the liberty of constructing a backup we can store at my colony."

"You've been busy," Tom said, admiring the engineer's forethought.

"Hmph. Better busy than bored. Logan out."

They docked with no problem, and Ba'ruq's greeting was a perfunctory nod of his round, bearded face before he strode off toward the Logan's small medical bay. Tom followed, meeting the eyes of the few crew they passed, and smiling greetings to their surprised faces. The Logan's original crew had never seen him uninjured. 

It was good to be back, but Ba'ruq's pace left him no chance to stop and talk. Tom absorbed himself in the different dress styles the crew used, and the less-than-polished look of a typical Runner ship. Starfleet facilities seemed a little too sterile to him now, and it was good to be on a ship that felt lived-in. He was not permitted much time for reflection, and he had to hurry to keep up with the Klingon. The engineer was eager to test the new system. 

Seven was as direct as Ba'ruq, and when they reached the medical area she pulled off her jacket and turned her back to the Klingon, demanding he unzip her shirt.

He did so as if he were removing the cover to a piece of equipment, revealing a set of implants Tom had heard described but never seen. They were thin and flexible, and spanned most of her back, covering the spaces between her permanent Borg hardware. Seven and Ba'ruq began to speak in short, direct phrases, and to Tom's amusement they seemed to understand each other perfectly. He wished the Doctor were already on line so that he could appreciate the counterpoint voiced in contralto and growl. Finally:

"Interface?"

"Assimilation tubules."

"Ah."

"Now?"

"Yes."

Five thin, dark tubes snaked out of Seven's back implants and into the waiting computer. Tom was momentarily nauseated at the memory of similar machines entering the flesh below his knees, but it quickly passed. Seven stood for all the world as if she were waiting for a shuttle. Behind her the Klingon made noises deep in his throat, sounds that Tom had learned to associate with successful results.

It was a long minute before Seven disengaged, the tube interfaces leaving the computer with typical Borg compressive bursts and bright flashes. She turned to face the console, useless connections hanging behind her, and watched as Ba'ruq made the final adjustments. With a last guttural "Ha!" and definitive press of a keypad, the engineer turned to watch the hologram take form.

"Please state the nature of the medical..." The Doctor trailed off, then finished softly as he looked around, "Emergency."

"Welcome to the Logan, Doc." Tom greeted him with arms outspread in an expansive gesture.

"I'm pleased to see your little heist was successful," the hologram said, looking happily around his new domain. "I suppose it's too much to ask whether you got my mobile emitter as well."

"Sorry, but that one's well secreted away in the temporal anachronism vaults at Starfleet headquarters."

"But we're working on it," Ba'ruq interjected.

The hologram turned at the voice, and Seven introduced them. "Doctor, this is Ba'ruq, who helped construct your data transport implants. He is chief engineer aboard this vessel. Ba'ruq, meet Voyager's emergency medical hologram."

"Charmed, I'm sure. You say you're working on another mobile emitter?" the hologram asked eagerly.

"It may not be as elegant," Seven answered, "nor as efficient as the one from the twenty-ninth century, but we hope to create something sufficient."

"'Sufficient,'" the Doctor repeated. "From you that sounds rather promising. Thank you," he continued seriously, turning to include all three of them. "I've only spent a few weeks of subjective time activated in the years since Voyager returned to the Alpha Quadrant. I was afraid if I ever did eventually convince them I was sentient, you'd all be retired. Or worse."

"You're a free man, Doctor," Tom said. "Or at least as free as we can make you. If you ever want to leave, we'll do what we can to transfer your matrix wherever you want to go. Starfleet would never give you that."

"So, where am I?"

Seven spoke. "Before you begin an inefficient verbal data transfer, I should tell you that updates on current political and military situations are included in your new matrix."

"Oh." A moment's reflection passed over the hologram's face as his program searched the files. "So you're famous now, Mr. Paris. And I assume this is a Runner ship."

"Your new home, until you decide to be somewhere else," he answered. "I requested opera for you, but it may be Klingon. Not the world's best research facilities, but we'll at least keep you busy. If we'd had you around when I.... Well, that's a long story."

Seven broke it. "The story can wait for another time. I would appreciate some medical assistance."

"Oh?" the hologram asked.

"Your data storage devices," she explained. "They are no longer necessary, and I would like them removed."

The hologram and the Klingon engineer moved into action as Tom leaned back and folded his arms to watch. He could probably have helped, but they seemed to have it covered. Instead he let himself stand quietly, enjoying the feeling of being back where he belonged. To have Seven of Nine and the Doctor with him only deepened his sense that this was home. Perhaps one day he would be with Chakotay again, but this was where he belonged now.

Seven lay face down on the biobed, the engineer and physician working together to restore her to her previous configuration, as she put it. The procedure didn't take long, and shortly Seven was sitting up, while the Doctor zipped up the back of her shirt. 

Ba'ruq stepped over toward Tom. He was no longer busy, and had no reason to further avoid their greeting. Still, the voice was gruff as he said, "It is good to see you, Paris." 

Tom knew what was left unsaid. He shared the feeling. Their last parting might have been final, and he was relieved to be with his old friend again. He didn't know what to say that would not embarrass them both. "Good to see you, too. Shall we go to the bridge?"

"I'd like to show Seven around, and get her opinion on some problems we've been having with the drive."

"All right."

The Borg had rejoined them. "Let us proceed, then."

Ba'ruq stood formally. "Tom Paris, you have command."

"Ba'ruq, son of Qarb, you are hereby relieved of duty." 

As the door swished behind them the EMH said, "It's good to see you on your feet again, Mr. Paris."

"It's good to be on them. Let's see if we can avoid a repeat. Life with the Runners is rarely boring but I could do without going through that again."

"So what mission are we on now?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'm sure there's something out there for us to do." Tom clapped the hologram on the shoulder. "Why don't you get your new sick bay in order and test out your new hardware. Let Ba'ruq know if anything is wrong. I'll be on the bridge if you need me." Halfway out the door, Tom paused. Without turning he said, "Doc?"

"Yes, Mr. Paris?"

He chose to make his point directly. "It isn't safe out here. You know that, don't you? If we'd left you where you were, you wouldn't risk being destroyed." 

"Mr. Paris." The hologram's voice made Tom turn to face him. "I am here by my own free will, whatever algorithm generates it. I did not have to prepare myself for download, and I chose to do so. I prefer life to not-life, and destruction to limbo."

The words convinced Tom that taking the EMH had been the right thing. He chose to express his complete thoughts lightly. "Well, the first thing you might want to do with your life is change your matrix out of that Starfleet uniform."

"Now that is an interesting proposition. It might require some experimentation. I assume the Klingon vest is optional?" the Doctor added archly.

"Of course. Welcome, Doc."

"I am pleased to be here, Mr. Paris."

Tom nodded and strode out.

His eagerness to resume command was only increased when he was met on the bridge by enthusiasm, applause, and smiles. There was a general noise of greetings, and Tom was pleased to note that the Logan's original crew seemed as happy to see him as his own ship's survivors.

Finally people began to drift back to their stations, but one lingered behind, a Bajoran woman who was the navigator from Tom's original crew. "Leenya," he said, inviting her to speak.

"You're wearing Bellor's earring," she said, loud enough for the crew to hear.

No one had mentioned it before, and Tom was mildly surprised at her words. The earring had become an accustomed weight and noise, and he often forgot it was there. Leenya was waiting.

"I saw his parents on Deep Space Nine. They gave me their permission to honor his memory this way. Terat Bellor was a --" Tom broke off. He'd been about to say 'fine officer.' He'd been around Starfleet too much recently. Instead he finished, "Great one to have at tactical. We do not forget him," he added deliberately.

The bridge crew answered together, "We forget no one." It was the ending of the memorial Tom had begun to use since he'd gotten a crew, when he needed to be a captain and give his people closure when they lost comrades. It had spread to all the Runner ships. They had already mourned their dead, but as they said, they would not forget. 

"So where to, Tom?"

He had known this question was coming, but he still wasn't ready to answer. "Anything going on I should know about?"

"Battle in sector 225 was pretty fierce. Rumor has it the Dominion was shooting at most of the escape pods," Leenya answered. 

"Anyone we know?"

Tom couldn't miss the way people caught each other's eyes, and no one looked at him. 

"We didn't tell Ba'ruq yet." Leenya seemed to have been silently elected spokesperson.

"Didn't tell him what?"

"Wolf Raider has been destroyed, Tom."

Empty. Suddenly he was empty, and all the glow of his homecoming was gone. The great focus that is the core of a good pilot came to his rescue. He needed more information.

"Put in a call to Starfleet Headquarters. Ask for Admiral Janeway."

A moment later Janeway's face appeared. "I'm glad you contacted me, Tom. I've been trying to raise the White Raven for an hour."

"We're both aboard the Logan. I heard about Wolf Raider. Did they find him? Is there any news?"

Janeway took a deep breath. "You're not going to like this. I don't like this. An empty pod was found that had traces of blood from Chakotay and a lot of blood from a certain Ensign Nwateo Sehm."

Tom's stomach dropped. "Empty?"

"Yes." Janeway looked grim. "If either one of them is found, there's sure to be an inquiry. The pod was well behind the Dominion battle lines, and..."

"And what?" Tom insisted.

"There were traces of a Dominion transporter."

"No." Tom's denial was a flat statement. This couldn't be true.

"We don't know anything more right now."

"Sector 225?" Tom turned to Leenya. "What's the closest Dominion prison camp?"

"Tishaben Four. We have the location but no other information."

"Tom!" Janeway pulled his attention back to the viewscreen. "We don't have all the facts yet, and there are still a few escape pods that haven't yet been retrieved."

"Harry?"

"He's safe on the flagship. Harry said Chakotay insisted on stopping by his cabin for something." Janeway shook her head. "A lot of captains go down with their ships that way."

Tom felt a twinge of guilt, hoping it wasn't the bowl that Chakotay had stopped to get. Then he realized that it must have been the Akoonah. "He wouldn't leave without his medicine bundle, you know that."

"Well, he may have died with it." Her anger was tense and understated.

Tom let his need to sooth her distance him from the news. "Kathryn, you're the one who said we don't know anything yet. He's smart and tough. If anyone survives, he will. Besides, if he went down with the ship, how could he bleed in an escape pod?"

"True. Please, don't do anything until all the pods are in. We may yet find him."

"I'll wait a day, Kathryn."

"Fair enough. I'll tell you everything I can, when I can."

"Thanks. Thank you, Captain."

She smiled despite her evident worry. "Talk to you soon, 'Lieutenant'.

The screen went blank. Tom stared at it for a moment before moving to the communications station. He leaned over the shoulder of the man from the Logan's original crew, a tall human named Ben who was half Indian, and keyed in a frequency that Mack had given him.

An unfamiliar male-sounding computer voice answered, "Voice print identification."

"So, how's Aunt Sophie these days?" Tom said. To Ben's quizzical look he explained, "It's not a password. It just needs a few seconds of speech. I could recite warp equations."

"ID complete," the computer voice answered. "Transferring comm signal."

The iron grey of Admiral Rand's hair filled the screen. "Rand here," she said crisply.

"Admiral. How's Mack?"

"Surviving his first week in command school." She smiled and added, "I warned him it was hard to get used to being saluted. But that's not why you called on this link."

"No, ma'am. It's about Wolf Raider," Tom said, sparing no time to get to the point. "Has the Chakotay been found? Or the Betazoid? I heard about the empty pod."

"Chakotay's recovery is not yet official knowledge," she said quietly.

"Which means he has been found?" Tom was nearly elated, but her manner set off warnings.

"He was recovered today in an escape pod with his CMO and his ops officer. Both Vulcans."

"If Chakotay was in a pod with the two Vulcans how could he bleed somewhere else?"

"So you know about that. The Betazoid may have been playing both sides," Rand continued. "His fingerprints were on the control panel that set the pod's course toward Dominion space."

"What if Dahl was also a Dominion spy, and Chakotay figured it out and tried to stop him?"

"We don't know. It's a possibility. Chakotay was in pretty bad shape, with a broken jaw and orbital bone both, and Srinak, his CMO, is certain the injuries came from an attack."

Tom's internal alarms went off. "What does Chakotay say?"

Rand sighed. "He says he has some gaps in his memory. There's going to be a hearing, I'm sure. Admiral Nachayev seems to have a personal interest in the missing ensign."

"And she's...?" Tom didn't finish the question, not over even a supposedly secure link. Was she part of Section Thirty-one?

"I think so, but I've never been able to prove it. She's very smart, and very careful. Even the hearing she wants is above board and within character for her." Rand glanced to the side, then back at the screen. "I have to go. I'll tell you what I know, when I know it. You'll know how to find the message. Rand out."

Tom leaned back reflectively, remarking that Kathryn would tell him what she could, but that Rand would till him what she knew. Interesting difference.

He'd told Chakotay who and what Sehm really was, and he knew his old lover well enough to guess what might have happened. Chakotay the Maquis was quite capable of making it look like Sehm had sent himself toward Dominion lines. If Starfleet figured it out, there could be trouble. The only thing Tom didn't understand was why the Dominion would have captured the Betazoid rather than destroying the escape pod like they had so many others.

"Where to, Tom?" came the question again, after a moment's silence.

"Earth."


	17. Chapter 17

"Could you please tell us one more time, what transpired between you and Ensign Sehm in the escape pod."

Three admirals faced Chakotay. He had sat in front of them for over an hour, and out of boredom and frustration had mentally re-christened them Iron Jaw, Simpering Bitch, and Helmet Head. It was the kind of thing he might once have done to amuse Tom in the re-telling. Janeway was in the room, behind him. Simpering Bitch -- Nachayev -- had asked the question.

He'd had enough. It felt surreal, like Wonderland, and he chose his words from the Mad Hatter's tea party. "I can't tell you again since I haven't been able to tell you once. I don't remember anything past finding Sehm unconscious and picking him up." His voice was edging toward insubordination, but he was telling the truth, as he had told it several times already in this hour. 

"You have no idea why you didn't stay in the escape pod with him? You have no idea who beat you?" Iron Jaw was clearly irritated, and Chakotay was sure the admiral didn't believe him. 

Chakotay had no idea how he had been hurt. "No, sir. I can only say that I doubt Sehm was responsible for my injuries. As I've said, I found him unconscious, with a broken femur."

"And the next thing you remember?" Iron Jaw prompted.

Chakotay sighed inwardly. They'd been through this several times. They seemed to think he was hiding something. He was. There was no way he was telling them that he knew the Sehm had been from this mysterious thing called Section Thirty-one. He answered the admiral with the same words he had used before. "I woke up in an escape pod with my CMO and my Ops officer. There was a great deal of pain in my face, and I'm told I had a broken jaw and shattered orbital bone."

Finally Helmet Head, the same Admiral Rand who had sent the encoded message, spoke up. "I think we've been over this enough. I see no reason to continue to bother the captain with the disappearance of Ensign Sehm. I would like to note for the record that Captain Chakotay's actions during the battle in Sector 225 likely turned the engagement in our favor."

Chakotay nodded acknowledgment and watched Nachayev's lips twitch. 

Iron Jaw glowered. "His actions also resulted in the destruction of his ship."

This time Chakotay let go of a controlled exhalation, but he said nothing. He was tired of explaining, and Siral's report had backed up his belief that Wolf Raider was doomed before he'd strafed those Jem'Hadar ships. Srinak's medical report confirmed a physical basis for his amnesia. He really didn't remember what had happened to Sehm. All he wanted was for this to be over.

No, that wasn't all he wanted. He wanted this uniform off. Permanently. The thought had formed first when he'd broken the bowl and found surveillance circuitry. It had strengthened when he lost his ship. Now he was only waiting to see whether he would be charged for a crime that didn't even seem to be defined. 

He didn't know what had happened to cause this hearing, and he wished he did. Maybe that was the hole in his memory.

Sehm was missing, likely in the hands of the Dominion. Either he was a Dominion spy or he was a Starfleet spy, and whatever the case it was potentially very bad for the Federation. Nachayev was the one who had called this hearing, and seemed the most concerned. 

When Chakotay didn't answer Iron Jaw's challenge, Rand cleared her throat and moved to adjourn. After a long pause, Iron Jaw seconded. Nachayev added only, "I'm sure you understand Captain that we'd prefer you didn't leave headquarters."

"Am I under arrest?"

Rand and Iron Jaw left as if the conversation were not happening. Chakotay wasn't sure whether Janeway was still behind him in the room.

Nachayev sighed in a way she must have thought conveyed her disappointment that he didn't think he was trusted, but which only irritated Chakotay. "Please don't force me to make it an order."

When he said nothing, she smiled and rose to leave. Chakotay turned to watch her go, and found himself facing Janeway. "Any idea why they're so focused on one ensign?" she asked.

"It looks bad, my blood in his escape pod and Dominion transport traces. Maybe I'd found out he was a Dominion spy and tried to stop him." 

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his, her mouth set in that "you're not telling me everything" expression.

Chakotay wished he wasn't so transparent to her. "Care to take a walk?"

"All right."

They strode in silence until they were out doors, and Chakotay wondered whether they could converse without being monitored. He decided he couldn't be sure. He'd have to leave Rand out of it, leave Tom out of it, and leave most of the truth out of it.

Finally he began. "I don't think Ensign Sehm was what Starfleet says he was, and I think I've been under suspicion of _something_ for a while. But I don't know what."

"There is no indication that this ensign was an intelligence operative, and there's nothing in your records to note suspicion." The rise of a question accompanied her careful statement. 

Chakotay was relieved that she'd looked in the records, and it made him wonder whether she had suspicions about the situation. He decided to tell her only about the bowl, and did so, omitting the fact that he'd broken it on purpose. "Sehm was the one who brought it to me."

"It could have been switched before it was given to him."

"Maybe," Chakotay admitted, "but can you see if you can find anyone who knew Sehm at the Academy? If no one remembers him..." He trailed off, then stopped to face her. "Kathryn, these hearings. Will they stop if I resign?"

His question surprised her. "Why resign?"

"I've had enough of this."

"'This?'"

"Suspicion. Surveillance. Spies."

"You put up with plenty of that in the Maquis," she observed evenly.

"From my enemies. Not from my own. What I thought was my own," he corrected.

To his mild surprise, she said, "Tuvok." She turned and began walking again before he could react, and when he caught up she said, "At least sleep on it. Let me do some checking."

"All right." Sleeping on it was easier than resigning instantly. He felt sure he would resign, but he wanted to talk to his spirit guide. His ship was gone, and his faith in Starfleet broken once again. He would not be betrayed a third time.

Janeway's hand on his arm brought his attention to her. "I have to go, Chakotay. It's been a long time since we had breakfast together. Can we meet tomorrow?"

It was a simple request, but it opened a box of Voyager memories. "I'd like that."

She smiled, squeezed lightly, then walked away. 

He went straight to his temporary quarters. Though hungry, he took nothing but water, giving himself at least a symbolic afternoon fast. 

His ritual garb was lost to the wreck of Wolf Raider, and he had left of his old possessions only the medicine bundle and the shards and stones from Tom's original bowl. The counterfeit second bowl with the circuitry had been taken as evidence, yet when he'd tried to bring up its existence at the hearing today, Nachayev had brushed it aside as unrelated. Her assurances only convinced him that she was lying.

He unrolled his bundle, and guided by he knew not what impulse, he placed the pottery pieces in a rough circle around his usual fetishes. The river stones he lined up like a path leading to the Akoonah. 

Then he stripped in front of the mirror, watching as each piece of his uniform came away, folding them with crisp corners that seemed sharp enough to sever his ties to Starfleet. He felt physically changed, as if what he saw in the mirror was completely different from what he had been even moments before.

He'd thought of the Alice in Wonderland similarity at the hearing. Now he felt as if he was going through the looking glass to where everything would be different. All that was left were the Starfleet issue shorts and undershirt. Resolutely he pulled them off, tucking them under the neat pile of jacket, pants, and turtleneck. His comm badge and his four pips he left on the fabric. It was an empty suit now.

Chakotay looked at himself carefully. On his head a wide grey streak ran from above his right eye to back behind his ear, and as he looked at it he laughed at himself for having dyed his hair in the Delta Quadrant. For several years he had darkened the salt and pepper of his Maquis days, of his first years on Voyager, to black. War had stripped him of that vanity.

War had stripped him of almost everything. He had nothing but his medicine bundle and his uniform, and he realized even as he thought it that he was wrong. He would never put on the uniform again. He didn't know where he would go, had vague notions of finding Tom, or even going back to the old Reservation lands where he had been born. Only his resignation was sure; everything else was a mystery.

He should be comfortable with mystery, with owning nothing. His tribe taught that one could only possess one's own heart and courage, and that everything else was transient. He clung to that thought, trying to make it true, hoping it would ease the place where his identity as a Starfleet officer was slowly becoming achingly empty.

As he reached for the Akoonah, he chanted the syllables, the ritual sounds that had no translation. "Akoochimoyah. Akoochimoyah. I am on the planet of my ancestors. I have traveled far, but I have come home. Akoochimoyah."

The setting of the Vision was a plane of dusty brown grasses and an open sky. The bright banding of the snake stood out as it made its way among the blades. Chakotay squatted down and his spirit guide reared up.

"I brought some friends."

Chakotay suddenly felt movement and looked up to see a black bear staring at him, standing firmly on all four paws. Pacing behind the bear was a large grey wolf. These were powerful animals, ones he'd never encountered in a vision before. Their presence unsettled him. "Why are they here?"

"To let you know they've taken their skins back, and you can't have them any more."

He didn't understand at first, and then the glaring conceit of his impromptu legend broke on him. He had left the skin of the wolf neatly folded in his temporary quarters. "Then what do I wear?"

"What are you?"

"I don't know."

"What do you want to be?"

"I don't know."

"What do you want to do?"

Chakotay didn't know where the answer came from, and was surprised to hear himself speak it. "Fly."

The snake darted its head, and Chakotay looked in the direction indicated. A low flat rock had appeared, with the brazier and pile of feathers from his vision of Tom. "Am I supposed to put those on?"

"Are you?"

"I can't do it by myself."

"Can't you?" came the voice, full of ironic teasing. "You took the skin of the bear and the wolf without asking, without help."

"Yes, I understand that now."

"Do you? If you want wings, make them."

"I can't do it alone!"

"Hmm." The snake appeared to be studying Chakotay's bare feet. With no warning it struck and clamped its jaws around a brown big toe.

Chakotay rose from his crouch and jumped back, dislodging his spirit guide. "Why did you do that?"

"I was hungry and I saw a great big naked frog. Didn't taste very good, though."

"That's comforting."

"Small comfort, frog, since predators only know what you taste like after they bite. Better not to be bitten in the first place."

And then he was alone, left to contemplate the Vision's meaning. He began to pull himself out of the trance, to return to the waking world, but he could not. He tried his usual tricks for lucid dreaming -- looking at his hands, looking for a full moon -- but his hands were ordinary and no moon could be seen in the vision's clear day.

He began to struggle harder, felt panic rise, and heard in the distance an unfamiliar voice say, "Initiate." 

Suddenly he was dancing to a chant he had never heard before, the one nude man in a crowd of masked and fringed dancers. He recognized them as Hopi, and thought to himself, "Wrong tribe."

He'd said that somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where, or to whom.

The dance was not one he knew, but it was easy to follow and quick to learn. He was buffeted occasionally by the costumes of the others, and he found a pile of masks and shields near the circle laid out by moving feet. There were no clothes, but he took up a painted mask and a small feathered shield, which might at least afford him some protection in the crowd. When he rejoined the circle, part of him wondered why he didn't just walk away, but that voice was drowned out by the lure of the chants.

*--*

"What do you mean he's gone?" Tom looked at Janeway's face on the Logan's comm screen. Her lips were pulled tight.

"I went to meet him for breakfast, but he wasn't there. He didn't answer and when I went in, there was nothing in the room but an empty glass and his uniform. Neatly folded," she added.

"Medicine bundle?"

"Gone. Looks like he pulled a Tom Paris."

"That's not like him Kathryn."

"I didn't think it was like you, either."

He ignored her pointed look. "Have you looked for him?"

"He hasn't left the planet by any known transport, and I wouldn't know where to look on Earth."

"Where do rubber trees grow?" To her blank expression he said, "His father, his tattoo, are from the Rubber Tree People. South American continent. Or what about the Southwest? I think he was born there on what used to be Reservation land." Desert or jungle seemed like the best options.

She considered. "I'll get someone on it."

"That tattoo isn't common among the native people on the North American continent. He should stand out." Tom was thinking out loud. "He'll probably have trouble blending in in South America, too, but I can't imagine where else he would go, especially if he took his medicine bundle." He shook his head to clear it and said to Janeway, "We're at least eighteen hours away."

"We're on it, Tom. At least two separate branches of Starfleet want him back." With those words she reached to cut communications.

"Wait, what do you mean?"

Janeway stayed her hand. "Tom, did you send Chakotay a bowl?"

"What? Yes. I made it on that troop ship and sent it from Station Ten. Did he get it?"

"He got a bowl, with surveillance circuitry in it. He was sure you didn't do that."

"I didn't." Then suddenly he asked, "Was the paint on it even?"

"He mentioned that it was, and that the even paint was how he knew it wasn't yours."

She looked at him for an explanation, but Tom wasn't going to give it. He only confirmed what Chakotay had thought. "Someone made a switch."

"I don't know, Tom."

"I do, and I know who did it. He's currently thought to be in Dominion hands."

"Ensign Sehm?" She looked concerned. "Chakotay thought it was him, too. He asked me to see if anyone at the Academy remembered him. I haven't had the chance to look into it yet."

"Don't, Kathryn." He hoped his face conveyed enough urgency. He didn't want her to draw that kind of attention to herself.

She started to speak, stopped. "All right. See you in eighteen hours. Janeway out."

Tom turned to Seven and Ba'ruq. "What do you think?"

"They assume he has fled," Seven said from her new bridge station. "He could have been captured."

"Section Thirty-one?"

"Perhaps."

"Then how do you explain the fact that he folded his uniform and took his medicine bundle?"

"I do not."

"Ba'ruq?"

"They're your people, Paris. I do not understand this kind of deceit. It seems that Dahl may have wounded you again by switching your gift. What was that?"

Tom gritted his teeth. "While I was in transport, I made a bowl for Chakotay to replace one that I broke, and I sent it to him through Starfleet channels. It seems he got something different." He was angry that they had corrupted what was meant to be a very personal message, and now he was worried that they were going to hurt the message's recipient. "If Section Thirty-one has Chakotay." He glanced to the Borg. "The White Raven is faster than the Logan. Can I take it and go ahead?"

"I will accompany you."

"Thanks."

*--*

Seven's modified engines would cut the trip down to three hours. Tom had trouble keeping still for even the first few minutes. At a glance form the Borg, he took the co-pilot's seat and distracted himself by flying the ship.

A few minutes later she said, "We have an incoming transmission from Starfleet."

"For me?"

"No. It is from Administration. For me." She looked mildly surprised. "The message is text only."

"What's it say?"

"'Seven of Nine, please be advised that you have two outstanding reports from your tenure in Engineering and Ships Design. Please fill out the following forms and return. J. Rand.' There are resource allocation reports appended."

"Whoo-hoo!" Tom cried, leaning forward to key in Maquis algorithm two.

"'Whoo-hoo'?"

"Hah!" he said triumphantly. "Read it now."

"'We've found out where they're holding him. Can assist with information. Order specifics with returned forms,'" she read. "The forms are now building schematics with a personnel estimate. There appear to be only six individuals expected, but it looks formidable. I doubt we could break in, and certainly not without notice. The facility is located underground in a city on the continent's eastern coast."

"They only took him across the continent?" Tom asked, disbelief and scorn mingled. "Why not off planet?"

"I assume that is a rhetorical question. The schematics show a building near the waterfront with subsurface connection to tunnels."

"Old subway tunnels maybe. Can we reach it from an adjoining passage?"

"No, the plans indicate there are duranium barriers and shields in place." She sounded grim. "We will have to make our way down from the surface."

Tom didn't like it. Too much attention would only bring down the local authorities. He looked over Seven's shoulder. "It doesn't say which one of these rooms he's in."

"No. We have no way of ascertaining his exact location, or that of any guards. Sensors are blocked."

"Let me think." Tom fingered his earring and wondered how they could get in. If the opposition was as well trained in combat as Dahl, he worried about how they would get through. He didn't like the idea of relying on firepower in close quarters, or bombs inside a city.

Dahl's image stuck in his mind, and suddenly Tom had an idea. "Seven, how far along were you and Ba'ruq with that mobile holoprojector for the Doctor?"

"It does not yet have enough memory to store his entire holomatrix."

"How big is it?"

"Currently it masses one point oh two kilograms, and the volume is one thousand and sixteen cubic centimeters. It will be worn as a belt."

"What if we configured it for a different image and voice. Could we take it with us?"

"Yes. What is your plan?"

"Take Dahl with us. Let them think we're with him."

"They will know it is a hologram."

"What if you use it to make yourself look like him, and have it send out false sensor readings. That way there'll be a mass, but you can cover your Borg readings and send out human signals."

"I would be in disguise as a male Betazoid? I am not telepathic."

"All we need are accurate physical specs and a voice print." Tom said as if it were settled. "We'll improvise the rest."

"And you will explain your presence in what way?"

"Prisoner?" Tom smiled. "Recruit?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "Recruit."


	18. Chapter 18

He had danced for too many hours, long enough to spot the repetition. Chakotay was in a loop, and though the pattern was long, it had repeated enough that he could recognize it. If it weren't happening in the fluid space of Dreamtime, he'd guess it had restarted every hour. He had counted at least twenty repetitions since he'd been able to see the pattern.

Nothing worked to break him from the Vision. He had tried to walk away, but as soon as the sounds of chanting faded behind him, they would rise again before him. If he stood still, the dance would simply move to where he was. Now he stood pacing back and forth between two circles, trying to keep himself in the near quiet. He needed to think.

That damn black box that Starfleet had insisted on putting on the Akoonah. Someone was controlling his Vision, and he'd bet latinum that his body was no longer in the temporary quarters. Kathryn would be trying to find out why he'd skipped breakfast and Nachayev probably had an arrest order out for him. Or maybe Nachayev had something to do with this, and he was in the hands of whatever this Section Thirty-one was that Nwateo Sehm belonged to.

Chakotay hoped they hadn't put a uniform on his body.

*--*

It was late evening as they walked down streets apparently preserved in their Twentieth century state. Tom knew better, that the lighting would have been more random, the streets dirtier, and the people more economically stratified four hundred years ago. The building over the underground facility was two blocks away. Next to Tom walked the perfect image of Nwateo Sehm, red haired, grey eyed, and annoyingly attractive in civilian clothes.

Rand had sent the data on the Betazoid and included what he thought was the true name: Detin Fahl. Tom had laughed, wondering whether 'Debt in full' was another joke, or if the accidental similarity was the source of the all the other double names. It was fitting either way. Tom wanted pay back.

They had doubled back to meet the Logan, receiving the data in transit, and spent the rest of the trip modifying the mobile emitter. Rand knew what they were planning, and had given them her best wishes. Tom was glad of anything that might help, and as they approached the building his confidence threatened to waver. He glanced at the person next to him.

Without her high heels, Seven was barely taller than the Betazoid. She had bound her breasts so that she would not have, as she put it, physical structures outside the holomatrix. The visual aspect of the disguise worked well, and Ba'ruq had modified the emitter to give out appropriate sensor readings. The voice and personality were a different problem.

Speech patterns were as important as voice prints, and they had spent an extra hour setting up a rule-based program to convert Seven's crisp speech into something more like Fahl in his Treyn Dahl persona. They introduced contractions, slang terms, and a shade of humor in the tone. Seven had some control over it, and though not perfect, it was better than hearing her Borg-style speech in the Betazoid's voice. When they got the compensation routines running, it worked fairly well. 

It had to work, Tom thought, glancing at the building that was their target. Seven wanted certainty, and they had made several contingency plans, but Tom knew they were going to have to make it up as they went along.

"We're being followed," Seven said softly.

Tom didn't turn to look. The streets were not so crowded at this hour, and if she thought there was someone, there was. "Action?"

"We could ignore them."

"Bad idea."

"Stop." He obeyed, turning as if to say something to his companion, eyes flitting. He could see nothing.

"Whoever it is is cloaked," she said. "I can detect a presence based on heat and energy signatures." Tom watched as the figure of Fahl focused on the wall a few feet behind them, and said "We're waiting."

It was like Seven to have no middle ground. If she could not ignore it, she would confront it.

With a brief shimmer, the pattern of bricks gave way to a tall, broad figure dressed in black.

"Mack?"

The big soldier faded back into the brick-work saying, "That's not really the Betazoid, is it?"

"No, it isn't, and I'm not a new recruit." Tom tried to tell with the negatives what they were trying to do.

"Got it. Follow whatever plan you had. I'm just backup," came the deep voice. "Mom figured I needed a reminder of life outside the OCS."

"Great, but how do you do that?"

"Little trick we picked up from the Jem'Hadar. Get going."

As they walked away, Seven said, "I assume that is the Mack with whom you associated on your trip to Earth?" Not even the projector could make such a formal phrase sound like Detin Fahl.

"Yes, and please watch your speech patterns."

"So that's Mack?" 

The tones matched perfectly the voice Tom remembered from the Logan's medic. He tensed but smiled. "That's more like it. Yes, it is, and I'm glad he's here." Tom was serious about that. Mack's presence gave him a confidence in their plan he hadn't felt before.

They entered the main door of an old office building, the lobby walled with polished stone. There was a gleam of yellowish metal from old fashioned-looking lifts, but Tom assumed the mechanical elevators had been replaced with turbolift technology. He liked that the appearance of old technology was maintained.

The lifts were not their destination. The schematics indicated that they could only reach the underground areas from a stairwell. There were security scanners all down the stairs, and if they didn't pass scrutiny they would be trapped and vulnerable.

At the door they paused and looked at each other, silently agreeing to go on. Inside was a landing with steps heading both up and down. It was well-lit, but dusty, as if little used. Seven took the lead heading down, Tom behind her.

The scanning devices must have been well hidden. They saw nothing out of the ordinary but the archaic design of the handrails until they reached the old-style door at the bottom. Seven pulled it open without hesitation, and stepped into blackness. Tom noted that no light from the stairwell bled into the dark space beyond. No sound came back out, and he took a breath and entered.

Once inside he could hear the ambient sounds, but saw nothing. He thought they were in a small room. Seven was just in front of him, and there seemed to be at least one other person. Tom was suddenly glad that the hologram included infrared, so that Seven would look like the Betazoid even in the dark.

A woman's voice spoke. "Det, is that really you?"

"No," came the voice next to Tom, laden with Dahl's teasing. "I'm a Borg drone in a holosuit."

Tom almost choked with both astonishment and laughter. The best lie was always to tell the truth so that no one believed it, and the humor was typical of what he remembered of Treyn Dahl. Tom followed suit. "Does that make me a Cardassian with a face lift?"

"Shut up, Paris." Both voices spoke. Whoever was in the dark knew who Tom was. No surprise there. Suddenly there was a sound of movement, a waft of air, and a grunt of a falling body before the unfamiliar voice croaked, "Lights."

A dark woman glared up from the floor. Seven -- Det, he reminded himself -- held the woman's arm over her knee, ready to break it. There must have been an attack in the darkness. A lilting voice grunted, "Must be you. No one else could catch me like that. Damn telepaths always know what you'll do."

Seven let her go, saying, "So how've you been?"

The woman smiled, white teeth flashing in her light brown face. Tom looked at her carefully. She was dressed in a shiny black version of an outdated Starfleet uniform with no insignia. A dark braid of hair swung down past her waist as Seven helped her up. 

"I'm fine, Det, but you may be in trouble for bringing him here."

The face of the Betazoid grinned. "Oh, I doubt it would be the first time I've pushed the edges of an assignment."

The dark woman was now serious. "But not since you worked for Sloane. I thought he broke you of that."

A shrug answered her. "I was out with the Runners, remember? I got used to taking short cuts and improvising."

"Bringing Tom Paris here was definitely not a short cut. You can't bat your eyes at Sloane like you could with Nachayev. Besides, you're supposed to be dead or in Dominion hands."

"Convenient, isn't it?"

Paris watched the exchange, awed by Seven's acting job, and somewhat startled by hearing Nachayev's name in connection with Detin Fahl. The woman in black was between them and the exit from the room into the underground facility. Whatever test Seven had passed by countering the woman's attack, they weren't moving forward. He decided to try to push it.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind," he drawled, gesturing about the bare room.

"This isn't about what you had in mind."

To Tom's surprise, the voice was Fahl's. Seven was playing this to the hilt. She continued, speaking to the woman, "Look, I got him off the front lines, but Starfleet didn't get the Borg subsystem. Seems he found out about the data chips I put in him and they rigged the nanoprobes to blow. He says he was just mad he didn't get paid for his 'services'. Seven of Nine still trusts him, though, and he thinks he can get us what we want."

"For a price," the woman said scornfully. Tom hated those words said that way. He'd heard it too often.

"There's always a price." Fahl's voice was more formal, more like that of the Dahl in a Starfleet uniform Tom had seen on the troop ship. "Whether it's paid in latinum, or lives, or even just personal happiness. If it serves the Federation, we do it."

It seemed to hit a nerve. The woman merely nodded and turned to the door, which slid into the wall like a modern door. She led them down a corridor that could have been lifted from any Starfleet facility, with standard lighting, walls, and flooring.

So far Seven seemed to have guessed right, saying and doing things that made the woman accept her as Detin Fahl. Tom made another foray into the deception. "He said I could see Chakotay."

Their guide stopped, not turning. "How did you know he was here?"

"How do I ever know anything? I have my ways." Teasing banter was in Seven's words. "Can we go there first?"

There was a hesitation, then, "Sure." She turned left at the next cross-corridor, stopped at a door and pressed the key to open it. They stepped past her into the room.

Tom was shocked at the sight of Chakotay on a cushion in the corner of the otherwise empty room, leaning against the walls and unconscious. There was a crust around his mouth, and the Akoonah was fastened to his hand, his fingers glowing from the amber light of its central control. Tom bent down to shake him, and when he didn't move, Tom pulled at the strap holding the device.

The door slid shut behind them.

"I don't know who you are," said the woman's voice from a speaker, "but you're not Det. You're not a telepath."

*

The end of the dance was abrupt, but the process of coming out of the dream was agonizingly slow. Chakotay's limbs were unresponsive. The lassitude, he realized, was more than sleeping nerves. He was paralyzed. Urgent whispers reached his ears but no words resolved out of the sound. 

He tried to open his eyes, and they obeyed. He could see two shadowy figures bent toward each other. When he blinked they solidified into Tom Paris and Nwateo Sehm. He didn't try to make sense of it, and let the mixed feelings wash through him. Tom's image brought relief and a kind of comfort, but that the spy was with him confused the feelings with alarm.

Tom threw an object to the floor. It klunked heavily, and Chakotay recognized the Akoonah. Alarm and anger -- emotions muted only by his inability to move and express them -- rose as he watched the heel of Tom's boot descend. The machine did not break, but rather skidded out from under the pressure.

Tom reached for it, but Sehm grabbed it first. Chakotay's anger gave way to astonishment as he watched the Betazoid break off Starfleet's black attachment, then crush the Akoonah itself. His body was suddenly freed, his mind less clouded, and his first lucid thought was that Sehm should not have been able to break it with his bare hands. 

He brought his own hands to his face to rub away the rest of the fog. His arms ached with the movement, which was more difficult than it should have been. He must have been in one position for far too long. He felt a hand on his shoulder as if through a layer of padding, and Chakotay dropped his hands to look. Tom was crouched next to him, and he tried to look into the blue eyes, but couldn't focus.

"Chakotay, are you all right?"

Chakotay heard the concern in Tom's voice, nodded and tried to speak. It took a few attempts to get words past his parched throat. "Can't feel legs. How long?"

"Have you been here? At least twenty hours, probably thirty. How are your arms?"

When he tried to move them more, they hurt more. Fire and needles heralded the return of circulation and nerves.

Sehm's voice asked, "Is he damaged?"

"What? Why?" Chakotay croaked, as Tom answered, "I can't tell for sure without a tricorder."

Chakotay's question had been ignored. Where was he, and why was Sehm with Tom? He watched, noting his own nakedness, as Tom grabbed his numb legs and pulled them straight. It took some effort on Tom's part, but Chakotay could feel nothing. He was still disoriented. 

Tom seemed to be trying to rub the brown legs back to life, and it was working slowly. Too slowly. An ache began to permeate Chakotay's limbs, deepening to severe pain. The physical sensations made it hard for him to think, to try to figure out what was going on. He only knew that he was angry, and that he had cause to be.

Tom tensed and rose when the door opened and a square-jawed man came in, followed by a dark-skinned woman with a long braid. They were dressed in black uniforms. Chakotay understood the words that followed, but he took several minutes to make them mean anything.

"You see, Meera," the man said, "it actually _is_ a Borg drone in a holosuit. Why don't you turn it off, Seven of Nine."

Sehm disappeared and faded into Seven, but she looked wrong. Her hair was loose, and there was something strange about her shape. Chakotay's confusion deepened, but at least now he knew Tom had come for him, that Tom wasn't with the spy.

"That's better. Mr. Paris, Seven of Nine. My name is Sloane, and this is Meera." He indicated himself and the woman with a polite gesture. "Now, you tried to pretend you were bringing Paris to join us. Why not make it real for both of you?

"Why would you trust us?" Tom.

"I don't _trust_ anybody, but you could be useful." The man's voice was even and reasonable sounding. "I would certainly prefer the two of you under my control. Do you know how many careful plans you have disrupted with your little heroics, Mr. Paris? Until tonight, I wasn't sure I could ever predict what you would do."

"And if we do not comply?"

"Resistance might be futile." The man was very matter of fact, but then smiled and said, "Pardon my little joke. It's difficult to pass up."

Tom ignored the attempt at humor. "You said, 'You two,' What about him?"

Chakotay thought that 'him' must mean himself. He looked at Tom then at Seven, who was wearing an strange belt and still seemed wrongly shaped. They both looked grim. Then he looked at the woman called Meera, and she looked grim as well.

"He had two purposes," the man was saying. "First was so I could find out what happened to a promising operative. Second was to lure you here."

"Then you planned to dispose of him?" Seven.

"Only if necessary."

"You can't have expected him to cooperate after leaving him here like this."

Sloane did not answer.

"So did you find out about the operative? I'm a little curious myself."

"Hadn't had the opportunity yet. Too many other more pressing matters. Your Captain Chakotay was perfectly safe in the meantime."

"What do you offer if we choose to join your organization?" Seven.

"A chance to serve the Federation in a more directed manner, and better tools to do it with." Sloane smiled slightly.

"And you get?" Tom.

"Complete schematics of Seven of Nine and her assistance in enhancing some of my operatives with Borg bioengineering."

"And if we say no?"

"Why would you? Seven of Nine's little speech in the anteroom was quite well taken. You do believe in the Federation, Tom, or you wouldn't fight so hard for it."

"You just want control of the Runners. You don't need me for that. You've already had one operative on the Logan. You probably have two for every ship."

"Not quite, and no-one else is as visible as a leader."

Chakotay knew that the man with the square jaw and the deep lines around his mouth was lying. The young woman was the key to discovering what was true and what was not. He had watched her through the entire exchange, and although she was silent, her shifts of eye and posture told Chakotay everything he needed to know.

The man intended to kill them if they did not cooperate. She knew that. Now Chakotay did, too, and it fueled his anger enough that he did the only thing his disoriented mind could come up with. He tried to launch himself at the square jawed man. 

His legs tried to respond, raising him to his feet with the sensation of electric shocks, but his ankles failed. He was falling even before the fist of the dark woman connected with his head. Chakotay went down into blackness, anger shocked out of him and replaced by a vague relief that this time there was no chanting.

*

It all happened too fast. Chakotay shouted, lunged, and fell. The woman named Meera rushed to intercept him with a block meant for a torso that landed hard on the greying head. Part of Tom panicked to see Chakotay drop like a stone. Seven moved almost too quickly to see, catching the woman's leg and twisting, forcing her down, but not for long. She rose quickly on an obviously injured hip, targeting Tom rather than the Borg.

Tom blocked her first punch, but only barely. Her second landed hard on his ribs as he tried to get into a better position, torn between facing his opponent and not turning his back on Sloane. Warring instincts of self-preservation cost him.

Tom tried to kick the woman's wounded leg, but she had already moved. As he looked for her he spared a thought to wonder why Seven wasn't backing him up. He hit the floor hard, never seeing the blow that took him down, and had his answer when he opened his eyes. 

Sloane had Seven pinned under the steady aim of an unfamiliar weapon. Borg shielding only worked when it knew what to defend against, and Seven had no expendable drones to acquire the information.

Tom tried to rise and only managed to sit up before he was choked from behind by a soft rope across his throat and a foot in his back giving the holder leverage. His hand grabbed at his neck, and he knew the rope to be the woman's braid. He knew he couldn't win this one with only attitude and courage.

But they were all he had.

He raised his hands in surrender, and the pressure lessened enough so that he could get sufficient air to say, "Talk."

"Let him go, Meera. He knows he's not a threat." Sloane had barely glanced away from Seven. "What do you want to say, Mr. Paris?"

"You have what you want. Why not just let me and Chakotay go?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"You're both too unpredictable. No, it's best to eliminate you."

Seven spoke angrily. "If you eliminate them, I will not assist you, and this body will be no more informative than any other deactivated drone."

"She's got a point," Tom said.

"I'm sure she does, but we captured enough live drones that we may have ways of inducing you to -- comply."

"I will not comply!" Seven launched herself at Sloane in what should have been a suicide attack. His shot went wide as he stumbled forward from what must have been a shove from behind. A barely visible movement followed him in, and Tom remembered then that Mack was with them, and he suddenly realized they might get out alive.

He bent to where Chakotay sprawled to see whether he was alive, then fell heavily on the prone body when a blow landed on his shoulders. Meera, he guessed, then felt rather than heard the fight that took place over his head. He felt the chest beneath him rise, and relief coursed through him. This was going to be worth it. He struggled to his feet in time to see Seven throw the dark woman against the wall where she slid to the floor and did not get up.

Seven stepped over to Tom, but looked past him. He followed her gaze to where Sloane lay face down on the ground, still clutching his weapon. Mack's cloaking worked strangely, Tom thought, because he had to be on Sloane's back. What they could see was Sloane's head and shoulders and his set of legs, separated by a stretch of floor. It was surreal.

Unfortunately the head and shoulders were still armed. As Sloane's head was pulled up by Mack's invisible hand and slammed down, the fingers tightened on the firing stud of his weapon. An energy beam went off in the general direction of Seven and Tom. It caught Seven in the foot, searing off the outside half and taking part of the ankle.

She went down with a noise.

Sloane, looking complete now that Mack had moved, lay motionless. Blood poured out his nose.

Tom felt a large presence next to him and heard a whisper directly in his ear. "Get Chakotay out of here."

He nodded, realizing that Mack dare not speak where a sensor might pick up his voice print. Tom knelt next to Chakotay and shook him, but there was no response. The last time he'd had to carry him, Chakotay had at least been cooperative. How many years ago was that?

Tom tried, but realized he could only drag the unconscious man, and he did not want to cause more injury by dragging Chakotay's bare skin across the floor. It tore at him to admit it, but he called, "I can't do this alone."

Mack was holding Seven of Nine, who appeared to be floating, though missing pieces due to the cloaking effect. Tom couldn't look at it. She was set down on her good foot, and Tom held out an arm for her to balance. "Over my shoulder."

"Wait. He may require assistance."

Tom nodded, helped Seven to the wall for support, then helped Mack get Chakotay over his invisible broad shoulder. When Mack stood up, the cloak partly covered Chakotay, so that his head and shoulders seemed to be bobbing in mid air. Tom had to look away, the strange sight making him nauseated. 

Seven was waiting, not in evident pain, but Tom knew she could dampen her responses to injury. There was activity at her foot, nanoprobes starting the repair work, but was no way that she could walk. "Sloane's weapon," she reminded him. 

Tom grabbed it before returning to her. He bent, and she leaned, and he lifted her up into the same carry that Mack used for Chakotay. They headed out the door and into the corridor.

Tom followed Mack without looking up. His only thought was to get out. On the way to the anteroom they passed three fallen bodies, all dressed in the same black as Sloane and Meera. Mack's handiwork, Tom guessed. When they reached the bare chamber where they had first met Meera, it was once again dark. The odd, spare pieces of Chakotay floated ahead of Tom into the blackness. Once more, no corridor light penetrated that ink, and no sound came back out.

Tom stepped through without hesitating. The door swished closed behind him. He tensed for another silent attack -- the facility was thought to have one more operative -- but none came. Straight across the room would be the old fashioned door, and Tom headed for it, holding Seven's legs and trying not to bang her injured foot.

When he stepped through the door and into the stairwell where Mack had apparently set Chakotay on the steps. As soon as Tom was through and the door closed, something began to coat the door with a dull yellow film. Tom assumed it was Mack, because otherwise the spray was coming from nowhere.

"Go on," came a hoarse whisper from the origin of the yellow fog, and Tom obeyed, taking the stairs with the effort of his added burden. They made it to the top and through the door to the stone-walled entry way out of the heavily shielded areas. He set Seven down.

"Signal the Logan for beam up, and have them wait for me. I'll be right behind you. Get the Doctor after that foot."

She nodded, tapped an instrument on her belt, and was shimmering into nothing before Tom even turned away.

Back in the stairwell he found Chakotay making his way up slowly, leaning heavily on the railing. The bottom of the steps was obscured by mist. Tom reached Chakotay with a few fast steps, and put his arm around the bare waist. 

Chakotay leaned on Tom's shoulder. "Thought you'd forgotten me."

"Not a chance. Where is he?"

"Who?"

Tom knew better than to say Mack's name in a room full of sensors. "There was somebody helping us."

"Didn't see anyone."

Of course he wouldn't see Mack. Mack was cloaked.

Tom left Chakotay at the top of the stairs. "Wait here," he said, and ran back down into the mist.

At the bottom landing he waved his arms around calling, "Come on, let's go." The area was small enough that he should have been able to touch Mack, but there was nothing. The mist choked him, and he fled back up the stairs, telling himself that Mack was probably gone already.

An invisible hand stopped him. "Get the hell out of here. One plasma arc, and that mist is going to seal this whole area."

"What about you?"

"I'm all right. I've done this before. Didn't I tell you I was Special Forces? Now get going."

Tom felt himself pushed up the stairs to where Chakotay waited for him, naked, battered, and confused. He shook his head, thinking that there were as many layers to the Rands as there were within Section Thirty-one.

"Tom? Okay?" Chakotay still had trouble speaking, but to Tom's relief he looked okay. Tom reached up to wipe the crust from around the full mouth before answering.

"I think so. Let's go." Tom led him into the building's lobby as a low rumble began to shake the floor, and a dark shape moved past them through the door to the street. Tom wrapped his arms around Chakotay as if he would never let go, and signaled for transport.


	19. Epilogue 1: Chakotay

I arrived on the Logan with nothing but my name.

My only contact with Starfleet was when I resigned. I thought Kathryn would be angry with me, but she only nodded solemnly and said she understood why I would not want to return to Earth. There is now an investigation into my kidnapping, she said, but I'm sure that Nachayev will make sure it isn't handled well.

Tom tells me that Janeway and Rand have become friends. I hope Kathryn learns everything. I could only tell her what I saw in my last official report, and once again, my memory is lacking. All I could contribute was The fact that the Akoonah was controlled by an outside source, and a description of a woman and a man both dressed in black. Another blow to the head.

Tom told me what I seem to have done with Sehm, or Detin Fahl, or whatever his name is, and I can only wonder what I was thinking. Vague pictures of myself in the pod with him are starting to come back, but it's hard to say if I'll ever know what happened.

Tom talks to Janeway and to his friend Mack. Through him I hear that Harry has taken a captaincy, with Siral as his first officer and Srinak as chief of medicine. He even managed to get Enid Banta as Chief Engineer. I'm happy for him, but I do not envy him. I do not miss the demanding burden of command.

On the Logan I do what is needed, but not what is expected. Nothing is expected of me. I have never had such freedom.

Seven of Nine and Ba'ruq offered to build another Akoonah for me, but I refused. I make my visions the old way, by fasting and wakefulness, and only when I truly need them. Somehow they are deeper than those that come from an "hallucinogenic device," but always waiting for me, somewhere in the Dreamtime, is a pile of feathers and a pot of melted wax.

I told Tom that Seven and Ba'ruq will be lovers, but he does not believe me. It doesn't bother me, what he believes or does not believe. We share quarters, and in my inner sight I know we share a heart. We do not always share the same version of the truth, but we never have. It doesn't matter.

Like my guide and my totem the snake, I have shed my skin again. Truth has changed again. It will change yet again, and perhaps I will find a way to make wings of my own. There is no hurry.

I need nothing but my name and my heart. 

For now.


	20. Epilogue 2: Detin Fahl

Detin Fahl counted his sixty fourth day in the Tishaben prison camp when the first shots were fired. He was barely awake enough to care. For over two months he'd been beaten, nearly starved, tortured both by physical and psychic means, but never allowed to die. It was the only thing he really wanted. 

He had tried and failed to get Chakotay to finish him off on the day the captain placed him in the escape pod. The pod had brought him to Cardiassian hands, and to his annoyed disappointment, they seemed more interested in keeping him alive while unsuccessfully trying to mine his brain. He had tried and failed to get a Jem'Hadar mad enough to shoot him, and even killed a Vorta in the attempt. That had only brought a beating which broke his nose and knocked out three teeth, and restraints used on him whenever he was out of a cell. Nothing had worked. 

All right, he didn't really want to die; he wanted to be killed. Subtle difference, but he wasn't willing to diagnose himself. If he'd just wanted death he could have found a way to employ on himself any of the hundreds of ways he knew to kill. No, he didn't want to take responsibility for it. With the way the ceiling was shaking just now, he had a disjointed hope something heavy would land on him and do more than just break a leg. 

But then the door was blown inward, jolting him entirely awake, and a voice yelled in Standard, "C'mon! Go!" He could hear his fellow prisoners' cries of hope. He knew the voice, and sat up only slowly. Outlined in the wreck of the doorway were Tom Paris and Chakotay. Figured. 

Fahl rose off the cot and followed the others, trusting that his gaunt, ruined face and short brown hair would be enough to disguise him for now. He limped unnoticed under Paris' eye, trying to think up a name in case anyone asked.


End file.
